


Mind over Matter

by handwrittenhello



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: deancasbigbang, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Demonic Possession, Detective Dean Winchester, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a detective investigating a sudden bout of cases involving strange occult symbols. Everybody on the force, including him, writes it off as just another crazy guy looking to hurt people. Surely they'll have this case wrapped up within the week.</p><p>But what if magic were real?</p><p>When things get out of hand-- a bomber, his comatose brother, the fear that he may be going insane-- Dean is forced to acknowledge that his world may not be all that it seems.</p><p>Written for the Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the illustrations goes to [dreymart.](http://dreymart.tumblr.com/) She was wonderful to work with, and I'm amazed at her artwork! Go give her lots of love and reblogs.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Sheron for the beta. She revised the entire thing in just over a day! Without her, this would have been full of plot holes and awful characterization. All mistakes made are mine. 
> 
> I would also like to thank [my friend.](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5353853/Connie-rose) If she hadn't helped, all the dialogue would sound like two wooden sticks having a very boring conversation. Love you!
> 
> Incidentally, this is the longest thing I've ever posted. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you guys enjoy reading it just as much!

Dean _hated_ these kinds of cases. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the guy was a killer; he had to be a _crazy_ killer, obsessed with demons and spells and basically anything related to the occult. Those kinds of people couldn’t be reasoned with; they were completely devoted to their ‘mission’ or whatever the hell else.

He must have made a ‘this-is-so-disgusting’ face when he crouched down to take a closer look at a pile of—oh God, he hoped it was the remains of some sort of animal, not a person— because Charlie, his partner, laughed.

“Just trying to lighten the mood, sweetheart,” he quipped, trying to distract himself from the gruesome scene. He stood back up and pointedly _not_ looking back to the middle of the concrete floor. Instead, he took a moment to look around the old firehouse. The walls were covered in strange symbols, harsh lines and looping whorls painting a devious picture. Though they had long since been snuffed out, Dean could still smell the faint burning odor the many candles lining the walls gave off.

“This is some seriously messed up stuff,” Charlie whistled. “Animal ‘sacrifices’, what basically amounts to devil worship, and at least twenty known missing persons connected to him, presumed dead.”

“You said it. Is this all the information we have on the guy?”

Charlie handed him a sheaf of papers. “Just about. His name is Azazel Rosencraft. He first showed up back in the 90’s, but went off the grid before anyone caught him. He’s really big into the occult, Satanism, that sort of thing.”

“Clearly,” Dean snorted as he finished flipping through the file. “Hopefully we can take this nut job down before he attacks anybody else.”

Charlie nodded in agreement, taking one last look around the garage. “I think Forensics has already gotten everything important, and Henriksen wants us back at the office as soon as possible.”

“What? Why? All the paperwork is done for the day, and the report isn't due until Thursday!"

Charlie shook her head and grimaced. "We have that training course today, remember? The one on gun safety?"

Dean groaned. He had been working in the field for eight years; he had damn well better know how to work a gun by now. He just didn’t see the point in the training course. He said as much to Charlie in a voice that was _definitely_ not a whine.

"You _know_ it's required by the state," she chastised him, but she didn’t sound too happy at the prospect of spending almost an entire day going over the same basic rules over and over again.

“Yeah, yeah. What would I do without you?” he joked, nudging her playfully as they walked to the car.

“Crash and burn,” she replied without hesitation.

Once they got outside, it was a race to see who would get to the car first—and be the one driving. Charlie wasn’t one to be shy about shoving him out of the way, or literally wrestling him away from the driver’s seat.

Again, she won, but it was only because he let the dirty cheater have it. He told her as much, thoughhe had a feeling he failed to convince her.

Charlie was unbearable on the drive back, gloating with victory while Dean _definitely_ didn’t sulk.

Eventually her smug glances grew to be too much, and Dean broke the silence. “If you think this is gonna be a regular thing—”

“I’m sure you’ll win next time,” she said consolingly, with a sad smile on her face full of pity and mockery.

“Shut up,” he muttered, trying to regain some of his lost dignity. Just then, his cell phone rang, saving him from embarrassing himself further.

The little screen flashed _Sam_ up at him, and he debated for a moment if he should answer it. After all, a locked car didn’t allow for much privacy. But he would never be able to turn down his brother.

Mind made up, he cleared his throat, answering with a gruff, “Yeah?”

Sam took the hint for what it was and kept it brief. “Hey, do you have any files on a George Fields?”

“I dunno. I can check when I get back to the station. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just the usual, y’know? I’m having a little trouble with this one. He must be well protected.”

“Okay, well, if you need anything, or if you get into any trouble, you call me, you hear?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Sam said.

“Alright, alright. Later, you little snot.”

“Bye, jerk.” He hung up.

“Who was that, a secret admirer?” Charlie teased.

“Yeah, we’re going on a hot date tonight. You're not invited.”

She gasped. “I’m wounded, Dean Winchester! How could you be so rude to a lady?”

“Bite me.”

“Oh, come on, you know you love me.”

“Sure, just like I love head lice.”

She swatted at him as they pulled into the parking lot. 

“Ow, that hurt!” he complained, rubbing his arm as they got out of the car. 

“Suck it up, you big baby, I know that didn't really hurt.”

“You're a menace to society,” he said shortly, pointing an accusing finger at her. “I should have you arrested.”

Her comeback was interrupted by Chief Henriksen stalking out of the front doors. “Hurry up you two, we're waiting for you to start.”

Dean groaned as soon as he was out of sight. “You ready for eight hours of torture?”

Charlie sighed. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Bring it on.”

~*~

Dean trudged up the apartment steps, his mind and body numb from exhaustion. He tried to be quiet when turning his key in the deadbolt, since it was long past the time when most people would go to bed, but the click sounded as loud as a gunshot in the early-morning quiet.

Though he had done this many a time, he still wasn’t used to the tiredness that accompanied double shifts. After the training exercise, he had decided to stay late at the office, trying to gain more insight on Azazel Rosencraft.

Though he had spent hours poring over old files, he was in the same place he had started: with jack shit. The guy was an enigma; they had barely any information on him, and what little they did have was sparse and often contradictory.

He had only barely remembered to look up George Fields, and all he’d found was a ‘George Fielders’ that apparently went to Kansas University.

All in all, it had been a pretty shitty day, and Dean was just looking forward to collapsing on the nearest soft surface once he got some food in him.

He took in the sight of Sam lying on the old ratty couch, laptop still open and running on his stomach. He must have stayed up late, trying to find Fields.

Sometimes Dean hated what his little brother had chosen to do with his life. It was good work, something that had to be done, but he hated seeing Sam in such a dangerous position.

He didn’t know all the details, but Sam had once worked for FAIE, which was created for the investigation of presumed terrorists. However, their methods were… unconventional. From what little Sam had told him, he had gathered that they liked to use various illegal torture methods to get information. More than a few times, they had been in a news story about certain foreign officials found dead, yet still nobody had done anything about it.

Sam hadn't approved of that, and eventually, he had ended up quitting the agency. But that hadn't been enough for his righteous little brother; he had made it his life goal to take down every single one of those evil sons of bitches. In retaliation, they had done everything they could to erase him. Identity stolen and replaced with a highly wanted criminal’s, Sam could rarely leave the apartment, even for something as mundane as buying groceries. It was hard to be inconspicuous when you were 6’4” and your face was plastered on every telephone pole and storefront window.

Now it wasn’t uncommon for Dean to get phone calls at all hours of the day, with Sam asking for information on various members of the agency. Sometimes Dean was able to help, sometimes he had never even heard of the person. Sam still managed to take out nearly every single one of his targets, either by having them arrested or, on occasion, by using other ‘methods’ that he really didn’t like to talk about. It had to be bad for him not to tell Dean, so Dean didn’t pry.

It came with a price, however. Without his own identity, Sam couldn’t legally drive or rent anything, namely, somewhere to live. Dean would find him up at the most random times, banging around the apartment or tapping away on the laptop.

More than once Dean had considered making them both fake IDs and going on the run, but it would be too complicated, especially considering how big FAIE’s reach was. It was safer for both of them to lay low in one place, with a steady source of income.

Sam usually woke at the smallest sound; had done so ever since he was two and Dean would crawl out of the nest of blankets to go to the bathroom. He would return to the bed they had shared only to find Sammy silently crying, terrified his older brother had abandoned him.

So it was a little odd when Sam didn’t stir after Dean entered the apartment, or while he was scraping a dinner of sorts together, or even after he turned on the news to see what the media was saying about the case. Their crappy little TV flickered between color and monochrome as the anchor droned on about local sports fairs and a health scare for some politician. Dean wasn’t really paying attention; he kept going over the nuances of the case in his head.

His mind kept running even as he lay awake in his bed, unable to sleep. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours, going over strategies and techniques. It was to thoughts of tracking criminals through the city streets that he finally fell into a restless sleep.

~*~

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Dean groaned as he rolled over and threw out an arm. He felt around wildly for a moment before hitting the alarm clock, knocking it off the table and onto the floor.

He let himself stay in bed for another ten minutes, pretending he didn’t have to get up soon. He hated Tuesdays; Mondays were acceptable, because you still had all of that saved-up energy from the weekend to get you going, but Tuesdays were an all-around bummer. All he really wanted to do was lie in bed for an eternity, but he eventually forced himself to leave the warm, comfy blankets behind and drag himself into the shower.

It helped to rejuvenate him a little bit, and when he stepped into the kitchen he didn’t feel like the dead raised again. That didn’t stop him from hunting down a good cup of coffee, though. Nothing like a nice, warm cup of caffeine in the morning to give you a little boost for the day.

Sam was already awake and working furiously, his brow furrowed in concentration. Dean bet that if he were to strip naked right then, Sam wouldn’t even have noticed. He had a one-track mind; though it could be extremely annoying during arguments, it had served him well in the past, and would continue to, Dean was sure.

Dean cleared his throat. “Hey. I looked for Fields, couldn’t find him. Did you have better luck?”

Sam replied without looking up. “Nope, still working on it. The guy’s like a ghost. I can’t find any record of him even existing, let alone anything connecting him to FAIE.”

“Well, keep looking. I know you’ll get him.” Dean grabbed a donut, ignoring the dirty look Sam threw him.

“You know, you're gonna have a heart attack at forty if you keep that up.”

“Two words, Sammy: bite me.”

“Whatever. I'm not planning your funeral, jerk.” Sam shook his head in disapproval.

“Bitch, you're no fun. You gotta learn how to live a little, man.” Suddenly Dean sobered. “Hey, what was up with last night? You didn’t even move when I came in.”

“I don’t know, I guess I must have been really tired?” he said halfheartedly. It came out like a question.

“No, I'm talking complete comatose here. I probably coulda fired a gun in here and you wouldn’t have woken up.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dean. I guess I just didn’t hear you. Don’t you have to go to work soon?”

Dean frowned, but dropped it. He could tell when someone was deliberately changing the conversation.

“Whatever, man. Good luck with George. I can check the system again today, try to dig a little deeper.”

“No, it’s fine. See you.”

“Later.”

He pulled the door shut behind him, checking to make sure it was locked behind him. As he was walking down the hallway, he heard the neighboring door open and inwardly groaned. _Please don’t notice me, please don’t notice me,_ he prayed, walking faster.

“Dean!”

 _Shit._ He reluctantly turned around. “Hey, Castiel.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t like his neighbor; Castiel was very friendly. Sometimes _too_ friendly. He always made it a point to talk to Dean every morning, if he could catch him; sometimes the conversations could stretch on, threatening to make Dean late if he didn’t get his ass in gear. And they never talked about normal stuff, either; Dean was constantly surprised each day as Castiel brought up everything from the declining honeybee population to the various ways makeup companies tested their products.

Not to mention the strange clothes he wore. He was never without his customary trench coat, it seemed. Dean found him just all-around weird, but in an interesting way. There was never a dull conversation with him.

Needless to say, he had started to avoid Castiel after the first few encounters. He didn’t want to be rude, but he had been late on almost a daily basis since he’d moved in eight years ago. 

The same thing was going to happen today if he didn’t get a move on. So it was with some guilt that he backed away towards the stairs as he was talking.

“Sorry, but I've really got to go. I'm gonna be late.” Dean wished that he had more time in the mornings. He hated to admit it, but he was more than a little intrigued by Castiel. Maybe he could set up a time to meet with Castiel for lunch sometime, and actually have a proper, getting-to-know-you conversation. Right now, though, he had to go to work.

Castiel’s face fell. Oh no, the guy had gotten the wrong idea. He thought Dean was making up excuses.

“Oh, I—I understand. Nice to see you,” he said, giving a little half-wave. Dean turned around so he wouldn’t have to see the heartbroken expression any longer. Honestly, the dude was like a damn puppy. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he got himself off a murder charge one day just by giving them that look. Anyone would melt. _Oh, shit. I can’t be falling for Cas, that’s ridiculous._

He was so occupied in his thoughts he didn’t notice Bobby, who owned the building, coming up the staircase and nearly ran into him. “Boy! Watch where you're going!” Bobby grumbled, but there was no real anger in his voice.

“Sorry Bobby,” Dean panted, “I didn’t see you there. Gotta go!”

He ran off before Bobby could get another word in. “Idjit,” huffed Bobby.

~*~

Dean groaned and laid his head down on his desk. He was getting nowhere in his research. Rosencraft seemed to have disappeared, leaving nothing behind except what they had found at the firehouse.

Dean supposed he was lying low, waiting until the police let their guards down to strike again. And nobody could predict what he might do next. Statically, serial killers had a motive or reason, such as ‘cleansing’ the world of a certain type of people; which group depended on the person.

With Azazel, there didn’t seem to be any pattern; over the years he had gone in and out of hiding randomly, killing with no schedule they could understand.

He pushed out his chair and walked over to the board they’d set up with all of the information they had on the case, pinned up with hastily drawn marker lines criss-crossing them.

They didn’t have a picture of Azazel, but they’d gotten a witness who’d been at the firehouse to help a sketch artist. Pictures of all the people who’d been found dead in his path were pinned up as well. At this point, there was no doubt that he was the cause; with his background and all the coincidental appearances at the crime scenes, the force wasn’t even thinking about other possibilities.

He cleared his throat and yawned. He needed a break, some fresh air. Maybe some food in his stomach would help to get his mind working.

He walked over to where Charlie sat typing at her computer. “Hey, what do you say we get some lunch? I’m getting nowhere fast with this research.”

She didn’t look up from her computer screen, still typing furiously. “Sorry, I've got to get this report done. Maybe tomorrow?”

Dean tried not to show his disappointment at the prospect of being stuck at his desk for the rest of the day. Still, at least he had an out for tomorrow. “Ok, sounds good. Want me to bring you anything from the cafeteria?”

“I wouldn't say no to a turkey sandwich right now, honestly.” She smiled. “Hold the mayonnaise, extra lettuce and tomato. Oh, and a diet Coke.”

“Anything else, my lady?” he drawled, sweeping into a fake bow.

“Why yes, good knight Winchester, your queen wishes for her feet to be massaged,” she said, putting on a horrendous accent and holding out one sneaker-clad foot.

“My good lady can kiss my ass.”

“My good man can get me my food before this goes up his ass,” she threatened, wiggling her foot. She wasn’t quite able to hide the smile that was trying to creep its way up her face.

“Jeez, woman, you could give Chief Henriksen a run for his money. I can see it now: ‘The award for most threatening, terrifying human being to walk the Earth goes to…’” For all his joking, he knew that Charlie could be a serious threat when she wanted to be. One of the best hackers he’d seen, she had once changed his password and refused to give it to him during an argument.

“You know it, Winchester. Exactly how it should be. Now go, before you get into trouble with _both_ of us.”

~*~

Lunch could only provide a brief respite, however, and soon after Dean finished he was back at the grindstone. Before he knew it, his mind had wandered off the topic yet again, fantasizing about a job where there was no paperwork or research involved. Ever. Just a full day out in the field, asking all the right questions and seeing all the small details. After his shift, someone to come home to, share the evening with…

The sound of the front door slamming brought his attention back to the office. He startled in surprise; it was already dark out, and the only people left in the building were him, the janitor, and Charlie, who was getting ready to leave.

Coat slung over her arm, she waved a quick goodbye, heading out into the unusually cold night. Dean watched her go, then stared unhappily at the pile of forms that still needed to be filled out. He weighed his options, considering just leaving them for tomorrow. That would be stupid though, especially since the pile was likely to grow before he returned the next morning.

He sighed, pulling off the top file and getting to work.

Numbers and legal terms blurred beneath his eyes as the hours passed, and he blinked to clear them. The clock on the wall ticked over to nine o’clock. He decided to call it a night; he had already made a sizeable dent in his paperwork for the week, and he was starving.

He quickly gathered up his stuff, bidding good night to the janitor and heading into the parking lot. As he slid into the bench seat, closing the heavy door behind him, he took a moment simply to breathe in the comforting smell surrounding him. Even though he and his brother actually had a place to call a home now, the Impala would always hold a special place in their childhoods.

They hadn't always had a roof over their heads as children, though their father had always tried to provide some sort of shelter. Sometimes it was a rental house, sometimes it was a motel room, and sometimes money was tight and they’d had to spend a night or two sleeping in the car. Dean and Sam had quickly learned not to complain, and just be grateful they weren’t sleeping somewhere less desirable. At least they’d had food, most of the time.

Having a self-dubbed vigilante-slash-detective as a father wasn’t high on Dean’s list of ‘favorite things ever’.

He turned the key in the ignition, smiling when he heard the familiar growl of the engine.

The parking garage for the apartment building was surprisingly empty as well. He pulled into a nearby empty spot, thanking his good fortune. He couldn’t help but be slightly concerned about the lack of people, though. Was there some big event going on tonight he had missed? He tried to think as he walked up the flights of stairs.

Castiel’s door was closed, and Dean felt the sudden urge to knock on it, despite the late (or early, if you thought about it like that) hour. Maybe he could explain himself, have an actual conversation with Castiel.

He soon dismissed the idea, and stepped into his apartment instead, careful not to let the door slam too hard when he caught sight of Sam sleeping on the couch yet again. “Jesus, dude, you own a damn bed, use it every once in a while.”

Sam didn’t move. “Typical,” Dean snorted. “What, is this some new thing now? Whenever you sleep on the couch, you become oblivious to the world?”

Sam snored. Dean sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “And now I’m talking to myself. Great.” He threw his stuff in the corner of the hall, too tired to put anything away properly. Trudging into the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and took stock of what they had. Three health drinks (Sam’s), an untouched head of broccoli (also Sam’s), and a half-empty beer bottle (Dean’s) stared back at him. He closed the door and headed towards the pantry.

He was dismayed to find that all they had was an expired bowl of ramen, some instant coffee, and one box of macaroni and cheese. Mac and cheese it was, then.

If he banged a few pots too loudly while he was making it, who could blame him? He was doing Sam a favor, actually; it wasn’t good for his back to be subjected to the lumpy couch every night. Besides, siblings were meant to annoy each other. It was like some law of nature. Who was he to argue with that?

However, Sam still didn't move. He was getting a little worried, and after Dean poked him and he still failed to wake up, he dropped all pretense of amusement.

“Come on, dude, you're scaring me here. Wake up.” He shook Sam's shoulders once more before standing up and running a hand through his hair.

Maybe Sam had caught a bug, and just needed his rest. Working all the time like he did couldn’t be helping, either. This was probably just the result of a worn-out body and a few sleepless nights. Yeah.

Dean decided that it was best to let him sleep, and if he still didn’t wake up in the morning, then he would officially allow himself to panic. For now, though, he could at least get Sam into a real bed, rather than their beat-up couch.

“Up you go,” he grunted, dragging Sam upright and adjusting him until the bulk of his weight was over Dean’s shoulders. “Man, you are _heavy_.”

Somehow he managed to get Sam dropped unceremoniously onto his own bed without knocking into any of the junk that cluttered their hallway. With two full-grown adults in such a small space, stuff was bound to pile up. Sam did his best to keep his files and books organized, and Dean tried not to bring home too much unnecessary crap. It was better than it could have been, but it was still a struggle to get around sometimes.

He made sure that Sam would be comfortable when he woke up, before getting ready for bed himself. He had a feeling that tomorrow would be just as unfruitful as today had been, and wanted to get as much rest as possible.

Sleep didn’t find him easily, and he was left tossing and turning for hours, worrying about Sam and Azazel and Castiel, until his thoughts turned into dreams turned into nightmares.

~*~

When he woke up, he wasn’t any more rested than he had been the night before, and it was with heavy eyes and a heavier heart that he rolled out of bed.

It was only after he got out of the shower that he remembered Sam and his apparent inability to wake up, mainly because he wasn’t immediately bombarded with Sam's complaints that _he was taking too long, hurry up, we have a limited hot water supply and I don’t feel like catching the ague today, thanks._

He forced himself to put on pants, at the very least, before casually knocking on Sam’s bedroom door and clearing his throat. “Hey, you up?” He tried to adopt a mostly casual tone.

He wasn’t expecting an answer, but his heart still dropped down to his stomach when there wasn't one forthcoming.

Dean barged into the room, regardless of privacy. He checked to make sure Sam was still breathing before snatching up his cell phone and dialing Bobby. He didn’t even wait for it to finish ringing before hanging up and trying again. “Come on, Bobby, answer the damn phone.”

Still no answer. When he glanced at the screen, _No reception_ blinked up at him. He threw the phone on the bed and all but ran out of the apartment, grabbing a shirt and pulling it over his head as he walked towards Castiel’s apartment.

It was barely five seconds after he knocked that Castiel answered the door, bare-chested and with his pants rolled up to his knees. The reason became apparent when Dean saw his kitchen sink overflowing with thick black sludge. His hands and arms were covered as well.

“Dean.” Surprise colored his tone. “Come in, pardon the mess.”

“You’re busy, I should go.” He turned around, to go where, he didn’t know. Castiel stopped him with a warm hand on his shoulder.

“What do you need, Dean?”

“I just need to step out for a second and get Bobby, but Sam is sick or something and I don’t want to leave him alone,” Dean explained, and continued before Castiel could reply. “I can’t ask you to do that now! I mean, look at your sink!” He gestured to the kitchen, where the goop had started to bubble, becoming more viscous with each passing second.

Castiel looked back, as if to check its progress, and then stepped into the hallway, firmly shutting the door behind him. Dean looked at him as if he were insane.

“There’s nothing I can do about that until Bobby and the plumber get here,” Castiel explained, shrugging, and brushed past Dean into their apartment with urgency. Dean let him, since Castiel and Sam had become fast friends after Sam had introduced himself some years back.

Sam had justified his decision by saying that he thought it would be safe for one other person to know about him, especially since that one person was so out of touch with current events. Whatever that meant, Dean didn’t know, but he trusted Sam's judgement. Besides, the apartment could get really claustrophobic at times, and Sam was convinced he was going to go crazy if he had to look at the same four walls all day, every day.

He’d thrown in some puppy eyes at the end there, too, and Dean was forced to give in. Nobody could withstand the puppy eyes.

“Where is he?” Castiel asked, looking around like he expected Sam to jump out from behind the couch and yell “Surprise!”

Dean led him to Sam’s room, where Sam hadn't so much as moved a finger since Dean left him. Castiel tilted his head, walking closer to Sam as if he wanted a better look. He frowned, clearly deeply troubled. After a few seconds of staring from the both of them—Castiel at Sam, and Dean at Castiel—Castiel settled down into the armchair in the corner, and looked up as if he was surprised to see Dean still standing there.

Dean saw the subtle hint for what it was and took the opportunity to dash out of the apartment. He thundered down the stairwell to where Bobby lived, barely taking the time to knock before bursting in.

“What in the—boy, you scared the hell outta me!” Bobby shouted, quickly standing up from where he sat behind his ancient wooden desk. His anger fizzled down to nothing when he noted the near panic on Dean’s face.

“Bobby, it’s Sam. He won’t wake up, and I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

Bobby’s eyebrows nearly disappeared beneath his worn hat. “What have you fool boys gotten yourselves into this time?” he muttered, shaking his head.

~*~

Bobby and Dean walked into Sam’s room to find Castiel and Sam exactly as they’d been left, Castiel now reading one of the many books that had been piled on the bedside table. Dean remembered seeing stacks of books inside Castiel’s own apartment; he was apparently a very avid reader. “Dean,” he greeted, with a look of great confusion on his face, “This book can’t possibly be accurate. The probability of the killer going unnoticed while the detectives—” Bobby cut him off.

“Castiel? What are you doing here?”

“Dean asked me to watch over Sam while he, presumably, went to get you.”

“Oh.” Bobby mulled this over for a few seconds before shaking his head, as if to clear the cobwebs from it. Then he turned to look at where Sam was lying on the bed. “You said he won’t wake up? How do ya know he isn’t just exhausted from all the work he's been doing lately?”

“That’s what I thought, but when I got home yesterday he was already asleep on the couch. I tried waking him up—you know how much of a light sleeper he is—but nothing worked. I finally just dragged him into his own bed, hoped he would wake up in the morning.”

“Well, I don’t think there’s anything to it. If he doesn’t wake up by dinner tonight, call me again. For now, there’s nothing you can do but let him sleep,” Bobby concluded. “Now, I've gotta get back, meet with the plumber. You go on down to the station, I promise I’ll check in on him when I can.”

Dean would’ve taken off from work, but something in Bobby’s eyes told him that wouldn’t be a good idea, and maybe he was right; Dean and Sam had always been each other’s blind spots, even as children. Besides, he still had the Rosencraft case to work on.

“Dean, if you’d like, I can watch him too. I’m not nearly as busy as Bobby is, and I wouldn’t mind,” Castiel offered.

It convinced him. Besides, at work he could use the computer to look up why Sam was like this. “Sure, Castiel, that’d be great. Thanks, both of you.”

“It’s no trouble; he’s my friend, too.”

“Yeah. Now go on, you better get to work before they notice you're late.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean had officially decided he was moving to Mexico, right after he quit this god-awful, worthless, absolute piece of _shit_ job.

Five hours. Five hours they had spent combing the freezing streets of the city, hunting down every little scrap of information they could get their hands on, like mice searching for every remaining crumb of food after a meal. They visited everyone who may have had any connection to Azazel, looking for anything that might let them know where he would be next.

Everything had turned out to be either worthless, something they already knew, or a dead end.

Eventually Chief Henriksen had called all the weary officers in, something about taking a break for all of the hard work they had been doing lately. Dean hadn't paid attention to the specifics; he heard the words “rest of the day off” and that was it for his focus and concentration.

As he and his colleagues gathered their bags and coats to leave, Charlie stopped by his desk. “So how about that lunch now? It’s already two, and I'm starving.”

Dean considered it for a moment while he pulled on his coat. He felt obligated to check on Sam, especially since he had been granted this rare leave, but he couldn’t turn her down, not when he had been the one to ask her yesterday.

“Sure,” he answered reluctantly, “where do you want to go?”

“I heard about this new place that just opened up near the park, I think it’s called the Roadhouse? They’ve got really good burgers. We could go there.”

“A place after my own heart, sounds good to me. But _I'm_ driving!” he insisted, snatching up his keys before Charlie could get to them. He hoped that his tone was casual enough not to betray his worry about Sam.

The temperature had dropped by what felt like twenty degrees when they stepped outside. “Jesus, it’s freezing out here,” Dean complained, trying to unlock the car door with shaking hands.

“Yeah, there’s supposed to be some freak snowstorm this week. If they cancel the Moondoor event this weekend, I’m going to be so angry. They’ve already rescheduled it like, eight times for ‘personal and logistical reasons’ or whatever,” Charlie grumbled.

“Moondoor? What the hell is that?” Dean asked as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Oh, it’s one of the LARP events. Medieval, lots of knights and mages and queens.”

“Huh.”

“I think you’d like it. Hey! You should come!”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He wanted to tell her about Sam, but that conversation would be difficult to explain. _Hey, so it turns out, I have this brother who’s on the run from the law until he can get his stolen identity back, and he’s been living with me for years now and the only other people who know about him are our neighbor and landlord-slash-surrogate-father-figure. Also, I think he may have mysteriously fallen ill with some sort of disease that may have put him into a coma. What’s new with you?_

Yeah, there was no way in hell he was doing that.

Just as they pulled into the parking lot, a few fat snowflakes drifted down to land on the windshield. Dean hoped this wasn’t the blizzard Charlie had been talking about.

Charlie tried to engage him in idle chatter as they walked into the loud restaurant, but Dean was too preoccupied with his worries about Sam to give more than one-or-two-word answers. Eventually, she gave up, commenting on his weird mood.

The restaurant smelled like sweat, booze, cigarette smoke, and the quality kind of food that was probably worse for your health than drinking an entire tub of lard. This was the kind of place Dean missed from his childhood. Sure, he had mostly hated it at the time, all the moving around (Sammy was just more vocal about it), but there was some nostalgia involved.

Charlie snickered. “If you could see the look on your face right now…” Dean rolled his eyes, hoping he wasn’t blushing.

They sat down in a booth, and shortly after, a young, blonde waitress walked up to them. “My name is Jo, what can I get you two today?” she said.

“Can we get two bacon cheeseburgers, and two beers?” Charlie requested, smiling up at the waitress.

“Sure thing. I’ll be right out with your orders.” She winked at Charlie before sashaying off to the kitchen.

“Dude, she was _hot_ ,” Dean said meaningfully, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, no, Winchester, don’t you _dare_ try to set us up! Remember what happened last time? Besides, I can find my own dates.”

“How was I supposed to know she was—”

All of the patrons of the bar stopped talking at once as the entire place started to shake. The lights flickered, once, twice, and then everything was back to normal. “Some kind of earthquake?” Dean wondered, looking around like everyone else was.

Suddenly, they heard screams coming from the street outside, and more and more people started to run past the front of the building.

Dean and Charlie had been working with law enforcement long enough to recognize the signs of an impending disaster; they were taking off into the fray moments later.

Dean skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, regardless of the river of people parting around him and his partner. What he saw nearly made his heart stop beating out of pure shock.

Azazel Rosencraft was crouched less than a block away, fiddling with something in his hands hidden by the bulk of his body, which was turned away from Dean. Smoke was pouring from a nearby building, and Dean guessed that was what had caused the shaking. _What the hell is he doing here, in such a public place?_ They were on one of the busiest streets of the city. Thank God most everybody was indoors because of the cold.

“Holy shit,” Charlie breathed, reaching for her radio. “This is Detective Bradbury, we’ve found Rosencraft, repeat, we’ve found Rosencraft.”

While she was doing that, Dean silently crept closer, loading his gun and cocking it. He was careful not to get too close, in case Azazel attacked him, and just as he turned around Dean whipped his gun into position. “Freeze! You’re under arrest. Lie down on the ground with your hands behind your back,” he ordered.

Azazel paused in his machinations, slowly turning around to face the detective. Dean caught a glimpse of eyes that looked strangely dark, before the device he was holding in his hands tumbled on to the street, and everything after that happened in slow motion.

Dean caught a glimpse of red numbers ticking down, had time to yell, “Oh _shi_ —” before everything exploded.

The force of the explosion knocked him backwards off his feet, and he scrambled for cover behind a nearby trash bin, feeling the heat of the flames lessen a little bit. Debris rained down on him, concrete, asphalt, and shards of glass scraping him on their way down to the unforgiving ground.

He wasn’t sure when the blast stopped, mainly because he had an arm wrapped protectively around his face, and his ears were ringing from the percussive force. He cautiously peeked out once he thought it was safe, feeling his ribs complain with the movement. They were probably bruised, at the very least, and Dean hoped he wouldn’t have to have them looked at.

The damage done to the block was horrendous. Multiple storefronts had been almost completely destroyed, the street was all torn up, and there was still a fire burning across the street from him. It was steadily spreading, and Dean cursed Azazel for it. Who knew how many people had been injured, or even killed?

He shook off a wave of dizziness as he slowly tried to stand up so that he could go help, but stopped when he felt pain pulse throughout his body. His vision was starting to swim as well. Not letting that stop him, he grabbed onto the trashcan, using it to haul himself up. That was when Charlie ran over, gripping his other arm to support him.

“Dean! Oh my God, are you alright? You’re hurt!”

“No, I’m fine. Where’d Azazel go, did you see? Did we get him?” Vaguely, Dean was aware that he was probably in shock, and that was the reason he didn’t feel any pain.

“The son of a bitch ran away as soon as he dropped the bomb. Backup is on its way now, but they probably won’t get him. There’s too much else to worry about right now. Like you, oh my God, you need the hospital.”

How the hell had Azazel escaped the blast? Someone would have needed to _teleport_ to get away that quickly. “Son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean cursed, then promptly passed out.

~*~

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The first thing Dean thought when he woke up was, ‘ _Just five more minutes, and then I’ll get out of bed.’_ But as he slowly woke up more, he became aware that the steady beeping wasn’t his alarm, but rather a hospital heart monitor. He could also feel a sharp pain in the crook of his elbow, probably from an IV needle.

He opened his eyes, only for them to be assaulted by the harsh fluorescent lights. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, squinting.

He faintly heard the sound of footsteps, and saw a dark, blurry silhouette crossing the room before the lights blessedly turned off.

The figure walked back to its place in the chair by Dean’s bedside. ‘ _Why is everything so blurry?’_ he wondered, surprised when the person quietly answered him. Dean didn’t realize he had spoken aloud.

“The doctors said that should go away within a day or two; the blast was very bright and caused temporary flash blindness. How are you feeling?”

“Castiel?” Dean croaked out, wishing desperately for a glass of water. Castiel seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, for he grabbed a cup from the small table beside his chair and lifted the straw to Dean’s mouth. Dean reached for the cup, irritated—he could do it himself—but stopped when his torso screamed in protest. He swallowed his pride and allowed himself to accept the help.

“Bobby stayed behind at the apartment to watch Sam and see if he could figure out what is causing his coma. I came to keep you company. For being so near the bomb when it went off, you got off fairly light. You have three fractured ribs, multiple cuts and lacerations, some burns on your hands and probably, temporary damage to your eyes and a concussion. They won’t know for sure until they run some tests,” Castiel recited as Dean drank greedily from the straw.

When he was done, Castiel placed the near-empty cup back on the table and waited for Dean to say something.

“Where’s Charlie? Uh, my partner? Last I remember, she and I were—after the bomb went off, we…” He couldn’t find the words he needed; that must have been the concussion. Luckily, Castiel seemed to know exactly who he was thinking of.

“She’s downstairs, filling in your colleagues about the events of this afternoon. I can go get her, if you’d like.”

Dean shook his head. “Nah, it’s okay; she's busy, and if I know her, she’ll be right back up here as soon as she can be.”

Castiel smiled, but it seemed empty. “She’s a very good friend of yours.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean wasn’t sure why he was telling Castiel all of this. Something about him just made Dean want to open up. Though that may have been the pain medication he was on.

“So you two aren’t…” he trailed off.

“Together? No, no! She’s like my sister. Besides, she's not into guys.”

“Oh. Still, it must be nice to be so close with someone.” Dean realized with a start that Castiel was _jealous._ From his tone, Dean gathered that Castiel _didn’t_ have one such person. His guilt for all the times he had blown Castiel off in the mornings increased exponentially. Obviously, the guy had just been trying to make a friend. Again, Dean wished he’d had more time to talk and get to know him.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” There was a somewhat awkward pause as they both tried to gather their thoughts.

However, Dean was saved from embarrassing himself even further by Charlie choosing that moment to walk into the room.

“Dean!” she exclaimed, rushing to his bedside. He thought people only did that in really cheesy romance novels. He was going to puke if anybody started spouting shit like “I thought I lost you!” and “Don’t ever scare me like that again, you hear?”

Thankfully, nobody turned it into a chick-flick moment; instead, Charlie smacked one of the scratch-free places on his arm. “Ow! The hell was that for?” he complained, reaching over to rub it before his ribs reminded him that _no, that is not a good idea. Stop it now._

“That’s for getting hurt, you jerk. Henriksen has been grilling my ass all day for ‘letting one of our best officers go out of commission’ or whatever. At least no one else was seriously hurt.”

“Ok, first of all, you didn’t ‘let’ me do anything. I can do anything I want. Secondly, it’s not like I _wanted_ to be blown up.”

Castiel laughed, once, and Dean remembered that he was still in the room. “Hey, man, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than keep my boring company.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh, then kicked himself mentally. _Way to be rude. Now he’ll think you hate him or something._

Castiel immediately adopted a dejected, positively heartbreaking expression, and Dean felt like he had just kicked a puppy. “I can go, if you don’t want me here,” he ventured, and oh God, Dean felt like the biggest dick _of all time_ and he didn’t _know_ what to _say_. Why did he have to be so awkward around Castiel? Goddamn it.

“Dean didn’t mean it like that, Castiel. You stay here, and I’ll go get us both some coffee.” As Charlie left, she winked at him (not even _trying_ to be subtle, there. He was going to _kill_ her, as soon as he could stand up without falling over.) He rolled his eyes, and Castiel saw him.

He had that wrinkle on his forehead that he got whenever he was confused, and was doing the little head-tilt thing. ‘ _Stop it, Winchester; you're a grown man, not some teenage girl in love. Get it together!’_ he barked at himself, trying to think of manly things like chopping wood and growing a big, bushy beard.

“Dean, why did Charlie—”

“Charlie seems to think that we should get together. She thinks she's getting revenge for me trying to set her up with a really hot waitress earlier. Don’t worry, it’s just a stupid joke.”

Castiel’s face fell, just barely noticeable, but Dean was able to see the fine features of his face rearrange themselves into something resembling disappointment. ‘ _What did I say now?’_ he thought, dismayed.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the steady _beep_ of Dean’s heart monitor. Eventually, Dean broke the silence. “What time is it?” he asked, yawning. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been unconscious, but judging from the tired way Castiel held himself, he figured it had to be late at night or early the next morning.

“Just past four in the morning,” Castiel answered, barely holding back a yawn himself.

“Shit, Cas, you don’t need to stay up for me. Hell, even I'm tired, and I've been sleeping all afternoon.” Castiel’s eyes widened at the offhand use of the nickname. Dean hoped he hadn't offended him. “Sorry, can I call you Cas? I don’t mean to offend—”

“No, no, it’s fine. Really,” he said hurriedly when Dean tried to backtrack.

“You sure? Because I can call you Castiel, it’s no problem, really—”

“It’s fine, actually, I kind of like it—” He stopped talking as soon as he realized what he’d said, blushing a bright scarlet and looking down at the floor. Dean thought it was kind of cute.

Taking mercy on him, Dean decided not to tease him about the various shades of red he was turning and instead said, “Okay, I’ll call you Cas then.”

Castiel looked up at him through lashes that seemed miles long, and Jesus Christ, where on earth had that thought come from? He must have been as high as a kite on pain medication. The same medication that was rapidly putting him to sleep; he yawned once again as exhaustion flowed through every fiber of his body.

“Sleep, Dean,” Castiel said gently. “I’ll watch over you.” _He’s always there for me,_ Dean realized, right before he dropped off.

~*~

The next time Dean awoke, hours later, it was to the sound of hushed whispers coming from the other side of the room, probably a nurse or a doctor, talking to either Castiel or Charlie.

He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but eventually he heard footsteps approaching. He opened his eyes to see Castiel and a young woman standing over him.

“Good morning, Mr. Winchester. My name is Dr. Reddy. Can you tell me how you're feeling today?”

“Pretty good, considering.” He hoped that she was here to tell him he was being discharged soon. He didn’t want to be pulled off the case.

“You were remarkably lucky. We’re optimistic about your recovery.

“Now, since you probably have a concussion to go along with your corneal flash burns, we strongly recommend staying away from any and all strong light, including sunlight, some indoor lights, and anything with a screen, like a TV or computer.

“Your ribs were fractured, so those will take longer to heal. Again, stay away from any strenuous physical activity, anything that might exacerbate them. Regular painkillers, like aspirin will help with any pain you may have. If you're sure that you're feeling fine, we can let you go today,” she said, marking something down on her clipboard.

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a blinding smile, eager to get out of the hospital and back to Sam.

“Great. I’ll be right back with your papers.” She left the room.

Castiel helped him out of the uncomfortable bed, handing him a fresh set of clothes he had brought. They were Castiel’s and didn’t fit quite right, but it was better than nothing. Dean thanked him, and as soon as he was changed, they walked out of the hospital together, where Charlie was waiting with the Impala.

Although it was a cloudy day, the setting sun was still almost too bright for his overly sensitive eyes. He held up a hand to shield them, stumbling towards the driver’s seat. He was immediately hauled gently backwards by both Charlie and Castiel. Now they were ganging up on him?

“Nope, no driving for you, Winchester. You get to sit in the backseat where it’s nice and safe.”

“This is stupid,” he complained. “I wasn’t even hurt that bad.

“If I have to ride back here, then I demand someone else ride with me,” he announced as he gingerly settled into the seat.

“Great idea. Castiel, why don’t you ride back there with Dean, and then you can make sure he doesn’t try anything stupid,” Charlie suggested, getting into the driver’s seat as she spoke, effectively cutting off any attempt Castiel might have made to argue. He frowned.

Charlie was forced to take mostly back roads on her way to the Winchesters’ apartment, due to the multiple police roadblocks that had been set up by the police to minimize damage in the wake of the bomb.

Once the car pulled up to the curb, Castiel again helped Dean, offering his arm so that he could pull himself out.

“Charlie, you can take the Impala back to the station if you need to. Absolutely _no_ scratches on my baby, you hear me?” Dean warned.

“Oh, I thought I told you. Chief Henriksen said we’re being pulled off the case; they’re bringing in the head honchos from the bureau. Apparently it’s a matter of national security now,” Charlie informed him.

“What?! How can they pull us off? We’ve been working our asses off trying to find this guy, and now all of the sudden, they don’t want us anymore?” Dean wasn’t quite sure where this irrational anger had come from. He’d been pulled off of plenty of cases before, some far more promising than this one, and he’d never reacted this strongly.

Charlie reminded him of this in a relaxed voice, and that infuriated him even more. He had every right to be angry, and he didn’t understand how she could be so calm about the situation. Distantly he realized that he probably sounded crazy to Charlie and Castiel.

Huffing in frustration, he turned to enter the apartment building, while Charlie went to park the car in the garage. As he was walking in the door, he realized something: the building’s elevator had been broken for ages. He was going to have to walk the entire way up seven flights of stairs.

Mentally bracing himself, he started shuffling towards them, Castiel right beside him. Dean half-expected him to walk up the stairs ahead of him, leaving Dean behind to deal with his problems, but of course the guy was too considerate for that. He stayed next to Dean the entire hellish trek up, ready to offer a supporting hand or arm if needed.

“Thanks,” Dean grudgingly muttered, after Castiel caught him when he stumbled on the fifth floor, a sharp burst of pain from a particularly bad cut making his knee give out. His hands were surprisingly soft, Dean noticed. They lingered briefly after Dean had steadied himself, as if their owner was unsure of whether to let go or not.

They soon withdrew, however, and strangely, Dean found himself missing their warm, steadying presence. He stopped that train of thought before it could get any further, instead choosing to think about how much he _freaking hated Azazel._ His body seemed to share the sentiment.

Thankfully, they were almost to Dean and Castiel’s floor. Once again, Castiel helped him; rather than breaking off towards his apartment, he followed Dean and asked if he could check on how Sam was doing. Dean opened the door in a silent invitation.

The smell of chili cooking filled the rooms. Bobby was standing by the stove, stirring a big pot of it; one of the only meals he could make, but it was still the best Dean had ever eaten. When their dad dropped them off at Bobby’s house whenever he needed childcare, Dean and Sam had inhaled it practically by the gallon.

When Bobby heard the door open, he turned to face them. However, at Dean’s hopeful expression, he grimaced and shook his head. Dean tried not to be too disappointed; it was what he had expected.

Dropping his bag by the door, he headed into Sam’s room, accompanied by Castiel. His heart broke ever-so-slightly more for his little brother. The situation was made all the worse by the fact that he didn’t even _know_ why this was happening to Sam. At least if he knew the cause, he could be searching for some sort of cure. So far, all he had found were dead ends.

He pulled up a chair by the side of the bed and sat down. He’d heard of coma patients who were able to hear everything that was said while they were sleeping; maybe he could get Sam to wake up. _Doubt it._

“C’mon, Sammy, I need you here with me. We all want you back to the land of the living, so, uh… get your ass in gear and wake up.”

Dean continued to talk to him, for how long, he didn’t know; at some point, Castiel had left the room, leaving Dean alone with his too-big thoughts.

“Sure wish you would wake up, man. I’m lost. Between you and Cas and Azazel… Hell, if you were awake right now, you’d probably just tell me to tell Cas how I feel. That’s you, always with the direct approach.” He kept talking until Bobby called them for dinner, which they ate in mostly silence. It didn’t feel right to act as though nothing was out of the ordinary when Sam was doing his best impression of a corpse not fifty feet away.

The sort of muteness continued throughout the evening, broken only by the occasional _plinks_ of ceramic plates in the sink, or a hushed request to pass the next dish to be dried.

After cleanup, Dean immediately went back to Sam’s room, while Bobby and Castiel gathered around the old television set to watch the news reports on Azazel. Still the police could not catch him. Alerts were being issued for the citizens to consider staying indoors unless absolutely necessary, as he tended to target the highly trafficked common areas of the city. Those who lived near the heart of the city were being urged to take shelter in other parts of the city.

“Jesus, this almost makes me glad you're not awake to see this, Sammy. Bombs being set off, a serial killer on the loose…” With nothing really left to say, he shambled back to the main room, careful not to look at the TV, which was droning on about the freak snowstorms they were expecting.

“How’s he doin’?” Bobby asked kindly as Dean flopped down onto the couch.

“Same as before,” he replied. “Any news on the bomber?”

“Same as before,” Castiel retorted, and Dean craned his neck to glare at him. Castiel threw him an innocent look in return.

“I still think we should take him to the hospital,” Dean said. “We have no clue what this thing is and he’s not going to get any better just lying there in bed.”

“Son, you know we can’t, not with the price on his head. At this point, with the bombing, it’s probably safer here anyway.” As always, Bobby was the voice of reason.

“Dean may be right,” Castiel interjected. “It’s not likely anyone would recognize him. _I_ hardly recognize him like this.”

“We can’t take that chance. What would you two do if someone _did_ recognize him? Those FAIE bastards would be on him within a week. All of the work he’s done towards bringing them down would be for nothing.”

“I’m just not sure this is the best option for him.”

Bobby’s eyes flashed, and for a second, they looked black in the light. “Maybe you should think about it some more.”

Dean suddenly realized that Bobby was right. What was wrong with him, thinking about exposing Sam to such danger like that? Things were dicey enough as it was, and Sam had finally managed to regain some semblance of a life. What kind of monster would he be to destroy that?

Castiel shook his head, frowning in confusion. His eyes looked unfocused, bleary. “Of course you're right, Bobby,” he said firmly.

“It really is the best choice we have right now. The sooner you realize that, the better.” His tone was very fatherly in that moment, and brooked no more room for discussion. Conversation over.

Dean stayed on the couch with an arm thrown over his face listening to the news for another hour, feeling at a loss for what to do. He felt unmoored, drifting in a timeless space. His internal compass was skewed, and he was hopelessly lost in the river of decisions.

He wasn’t sure what time he fell asleep, but when he floated back towards awareness, the TV was off and Bobby and Castiel were gone. Rubbing at his aching eyes, he threw off the scratchy wool blanket that had found its way onto him at some point.

He was feeling unusually low, and didn’t even bother to check on Sam as he got ready for bed with stiff movements. What was the point? There wouldn’t have been some miraculous change in the few hours it had been, and it would only serve to depress him more.

He entertained these dark thoughts and more as he climbed into bed, unusually tired. He chalked it up to the hectic week he’d had, and fell into unconsciousness without a second thought.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, Charlie called him to give him the latest information on the Rosencraft case. “I swear, it’s like he’s magic. The feds haven’t found anything yet,” she said, “but they're hopeful. And really determined. It’s scary, actually,” she confessed.

“Like, _Psycho_ scary, or _Alien_ scary?” he joked, looking out the window at the swirling snow coming down heavily, so white it hurt to look at. That could have just been the concussion, though.

“Oh, _Alien_ scary, definitely. This one detective, his name is Rufus, I don’t even think he's human,” she bantered easily, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. Dean laughed, enjoying thinking about something other than the doom and gloom that followed Azazel everywhere. Sometimes it was hard to deal with the guilt he felt about not having caught him yet.

“No, I’m serious!” she laughed. “He’s so grumpy about everything. No human being could have _this_ bad of a temper.”

“Well, good luck with that. Here’s to hoping he doesn’t eat you.”

She snorted. “At this point I think it’s unlikely I’ll get out alive. Listen, I've got to go. I’ll call you later with more information, especially since I'm stuck here now. This blizzard is ruining everything.”

“Alright, talk to you then. Bye.” Dean hung up, placing his phone in his pocket to prevent himself from fiddling with it. He sighed. He was sure he was going to go stir-crazy from being stuck inside all day.

He had gotten up earlier ready to go into work, whether he was on the case or not, but Charlie had said that he was on a leave of absence until further notice. The chief wanted him to have a clean bill of health before Dean started running around chasing crazy bombers. It wasn’t like they could do much anyway, seeing as how the snow was already eight inches deep, causing massive traffic jams and making any movement within the city nearly impossible.

At least Azazel was probably having a hard time doing anything, Dean mused. Maybe the son of a bitch was freezing to death in an alley somewhere.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. He opened it to find Castiel standing there. “Hey, Cas. What are you doing here?” Dean looked down to see that Castiel was carrying a dish in his hands.

“I brought over a casserole. I’ve heard it’s customary to bring over food if your neighbor is going through a hard time, so I made this.” He held up the pan.

“Wow, Cas, that’s really nice of you.” He took the casserole. “You can come in, if you want.” Dean went to put the dish in the fridge while Castiel stood awkwardly in the entrance.

“Did you want to see Sam?” Dean asked, wishing for another conversation starter. He sounded like he was only letting Castiel in because of Sam, when the opposite was true. He looked forward to seeing Castiel, and Sam was a handy excuse.

“I would like that, yes, but that’s not why I came here.”

“Oh?” Dean crossed his arms and leaned back against the fridge, the very picture of nonchalance. Inside, though, his emotions were in turmoil. He was beginning to think that maybe his feelings for Castiel extended past the ‘distant friend’ stage. _Far_ past it.

“I wanted to keep you company. I know how much I hate being cooped up inside alone, and you're injured as well.”

Dean didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Oh. Well, uh, thanks, I guess.”

“It’s no big deal. It’s not like I can get to work anyway.”

“Yeah, all of this snow is gonna be hell on a lot of people. Where do you work, anyway?” Dean asked. He hadn't thought about it before, but Castiel had never mentioned where he worked, even though it had come up in conversation more than a few times.

“I run a small shop with my brother. We sell medicinal and herbal remedies for common ailments.”

“What, like the hippie-dippy, new age kind of stuff? People actually buy that?” Dean didn’t mean to sound so condescending, but Castiel looked indignant anyway.

“Yes, they do,” he said coldly. “And before you ask, yes, that ‘hippie-dippy stuff’ does work. I’ve used some of our products myself, numerous times.”

“Sorry,” Dean said quietly, “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just surprised, because those kinds of places don’t really do that well, usually.”

Castiel relaxed slightly. “I understand. There are plenty of reasons to be skeptical.”

“Yeah, it’s not something you see every day. Hey, do you think you’d be able to make something to help Sam?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, looking regretful. “Most of my materials are at the shop. I only have the most common ingredients.”

Their conversation was interrupted by yet another knock at the door. “Who now?” Dean muttered as he got up, annoyed at having his conversation with Castiel interrupted. It was Bobby, holding an enormous stack of ancient leather-bound books.

“I brought some books on the strange and unexplained,” he said without greeting. “We can read them in case they mention anything like what’s happening to Sam.”

He dumped them on the kitchen table and pulled up a chair, cracking open the top book. When neither Dean nor Castiel moved, he looked at them. “What are you doing? Get to work!”

‘ _Tactful as usual, Bobby,’_ Dean thought. He grabbed a book anyway, glad for the opportunity to occupy himself.

He appreciated the efforts the both of them were making to distract him. It was doing wonders for his mental health.

The three of them read well into the afternoon, everything from traditional medicine to fables, though Dean wasn’t sure why the latter was in the mix. The snow was still coming down thick, and all movement inside the city had halted, as if everyone had simultaneously thrown their hands up in the air and said ‘fuck it’, retiring home to hole up for the few days the blizzard was sure to last.

As Dean was thinking about blizzard preparations, he remembered the sad state of their food supply. In all that had been going on, he had forgotten to go to the store.

Well, there was nothing he could do about that today. He would be lucky to get across the street and back without getting lost, but walking—he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to drive—all the way to the store in the blinding white? That would be as good as suicide.

He resolved to go out as soon as the snow let up, confident in the knowledge that Bobby and Castiel wouldn’t let him go hungry in the meanwhile.

He turned his attention back to the dull book on lore. It was incredibly dense, and written in old-timey speak that Dean simply did _not_ have the patience to muddle through.

Not to mention, the entire thing sounded crazy. It was on some kind of creatures called wendigos, which were supposed to be humans turned cannibals. Apparently they inherited certain abilities when they fed, like super speed and strength, and immortality.

The author must have been either completely batshit insane, or simply a _really_ good storyteller. Either way, Dean wasn’t sure how this thing ever got published.

He skimmed his way through the rest of the book, not seeing anything about comas or sleeping. Mostly the book talked about how to recognize the signs of when a wendigo was on the hunt, and how to kill it.

Putting the heavy book aside, he reached for the next one, only to discover that it was on vampires. “What the hell?” Dean muttered. “Bobby, where did you even get these books? They’re all on mythical creatures. I mean, come on, _vampires?_ There’s no way this bullshit is true.”

“You’d be surprised, son. How many unsolved murders are there, ones where you all are stumped? More than just one or two a year.”

“And you want me to believe that the cause of death is _vampires.”_

“No, not just vampires. There’re loads of other creatures out there who would love the chance to prove you wrong.”

Dean scoffed. “Oh, is the bogeyman out to get me too? Bigfoot just gonna stroll in here with his buddy the Abominable Snowman?”

“Dean, there’s more evidence than you might think. I myself have witnessed quite a few instances where they just couldn’t be explained, except by the impossible,” Castiel said without looking up from his book.

“And Bigfoot is just a story,” Bobby added.

Dean looked at them as if they had just hopped on the rainbow choo-choo train to Crazytown and were trying to get him to join them. “Have you both gone _nuts?_ I mean, it’s not exactly a surprise that Mr. New-Age Herbal Healing believes in this, but _you,_ Bobby? Aren't you a little young to be going senile?”

“You watch your mouth around me, boy. Just because you don’t like it, don’t mean it ain’t true.”

Dean felt unbelievably pissed off, and incredulous at the same time. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Here was the man who had practically raised him, acting like _Dean_ was the crazy one for not believing in monsters and fairy tales.

“I can’t believe you two. We have a real, actual problem on our hands, and you’ve got me sitting here researching fucking _fairy tales!”_ He threw the book down in disgust, shoving the kitchen chair out of the way as he stalked off towards Sam's room, ignoring his complaining ribs.

He sat next to Sam deep in thought for a long time, but seeing Sam still alive didn’t calm him down as much as he’d thought it would. He still felt antsy, confined in such a small space. There was so much energy buzzing under his skin.

His cell phone rang, drawing his attention. Hoping it would be Charlie with more news, he answered it and was not disappointed.

“Charlie! What’s happening?”

“Dean… They're all dead.” Her voice broke on a sob.

“What? Charlie, what happened?” Dean shouted.

“I—I left to go to the bathroom and when I came back…”

“Okay, just hold on. I’m coming over.”

“No! No, just stay where you are. I can’t lose you too.”

“Do we even know how they died?” He spoke lowly, pacing around the room. He was itching to get out and do something.

“I don’t know what happened. I came out and everybody in the station was lying on the ground, like they’d just dropped d-dead where they stood. A-and their eyes, they were bleeding, and their noses, and their ears. And, and, I can’t, I don’t know what to do—”

“Charlie, listen to me. You need to take a deep breath, and calm down. Come on, listen to me. In,” he inhaled, “and out.”

She took another shaky breath, then another, and another, until she was breathing deeply and steadily.

“There we go.” He was trying to hold it together as well. Everyone he worked with, dead? He just couldn’t process it. Didn’t allow himself to, not until he could safely fall apart.

He had to focus right now, however. “Okay, so when do you think the time of death was?” he asked, wincing when he sounded too callous.

“Um, less than ten minutes ago. I was only gone for a couple of minutes. But how could that happen? What could have killed them like that?”

He blew out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. That’s…that’s insane. That’s really insane. I bet it was Azazel, somehow. You said they were all bleeding?”

“Yeah. I have no clue what he could have done to cause that, though.”

“Neither do I,” Dean admitted. “Where are you now?”

“On my way home. The streets are clearer than they were earlier, but it’s still a mess out here. Whatever you do, stay at home.”

“I’ll try, but no promises. We’re running kind of low on food.”

“I’m serious, Dean. Make nice with your neighbors or something, mooch off of them, I don’t care.”

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

“I’m telling you, you should totally look into that. He’s hot, and was sweet enough to visit you in the hospital. Total boyfriend material.”

“I’ll make you a deal: if I hook up with Cas, you have to ask that waitress, Jo, out.”

“So he’s Cas now, is he?” she teased, but it sounded hollow. Probably doing her best to distract herself from—right, best not to think about that right now.

“Don’t get any ideas. Do we have a deal?”

“Deal. I’ll look into what could’ve happened, and call you if I find anything.”

“Alright, same here. Bye.” He walked back out into the common area, and grabbed his gun from where it hung next to the door, along with all of his other gear. As he was in the process of checking it out, Castiel looked up, a frown evident on his face.

“What are you doing, Dean?” he asked sternly, shutting the cover of his book. Dean noticed that Bobby had left sometime earlier.

“I’m going after Azazel, to finish this, once and for all.”

“Dean, you can’t!” Castiel grabbed his arm. “There’s still a blizzard outside, and you don’t even know where he is. He could be in another state by now!”

“He isn’t.” Dean stated this with such confidence that Castiel paused.

“What do you mean? How do you know?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“The rest of the force is dead,” he said bluntly, taking advantage of Castiel’s shock and shrugging off his grip.

“Dead? What happened?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I'm going to find out, right before I kill the evil son of a bitch that did it.”

“How do you know it was him?”

“Charlie found them all, lying there with blood coming out of their eyes and ears. Azazel is the only one with the motive, especially to do it so callously.”

“You can’t just go rushing in there blindly, especially not without backup. Need I remind you what happened last time?” Castiel argued.

“I won’t let that happen again. Besides, I've got the advantage.”

“How?” Castiel demanded. “From the looks of it, you’ve got no backup, you're severely injured, and you're going out _into the middle of a blizzard with only a handgun for a weapon, up against someone who regularly sets off bombs!”_ His voice rose to a shout near the end of his sentence.

Dean flinched back, but Castiel was relentless. “I didn’t think you were so stupid. I guess next time I’ll have to lower my expectations, since you clearly don’t deserve such a high opinion!”

“I—”

“What would Sam think of this? I know for a fact that he would think that this is an idea as monumentally idiotic as its owner.” Ouch, that was a low blow. “I will not see you fail, Dean Winchester, so put the gun away, before I use it against you!” he threatened.

Dean, sufficiently cowed, did as he was told, albeit as sullenly and as slowly as he possibly could. “What would you have me do then, Cas? I can’t just sit here while he runs free, unpunished for the murder of my friends.” On the word ‘murder’ his voice cracked, the gravity of the situation weighing on him.

He sank down onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. He felt the cushion next to him sink down as well, and surmised that Castiel had sat with him. He felt a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder, but felt strangely irritated, however grateful he wanted to feel. He was glad that Castiel cared so deeply for him—he’d had no idea the depth of his devotion—but at the same time chafed under the amount of attention Castiel was giving him. It was intense, like every part of him was being scrutinized under a microscope. He was pinned in place by that piercing gaze, laid bare to be judged.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Dean trying to regain a hold on his emotions, Castiel the quiet supporter.

Eventually he collected himself, scrubbing at his face to dry the tears that had slipped free. He made to get up, and Castiel moved his hand quickly, as if burned. Dean couldn’t summon the emotion to feel guilty. He was completely drained.

Bobby walked back into the apartment at that moment, carrying armfuls of food for dinner. Dean helped him prepare it as a sort of apology, for the way he’d acted. Neither of them mentioned it.

Over a plate of chicken and rice, Bobby made a confession. “About earlier,” he started. “I know how crazy I must have sounded, even to me. I probably should’ve told you earlier, but I just couldn’t bring myself to. Trying to protect you boys, I guess. The thing is, the supernatural is real, and it’s out there, and it’s hungry. I made it my job to hunt it down, and stop it before it kills too many people. Ever since Karen died…”

“You told us it was a burglary gone wrong,” Dean said dully, idly pushing his food around on the plate.

“I lied. I found out after I started hunting that it was a rugaru, gone insane. I couldn’t stop it.” Dean had read about those earlier; they were humans who turned cannibalistic after they reached a certain age.

Dean lost what little appetite he’d had. It had been three years since Karen died, but hearing her death brought up again was just as painful as it had been all that time ago. If he was being honest with himself, he had never really gotten over the death of his surrogate mother. She had taken Sam and Dean under her wing from the moment they’d met her, teaching Dean how to bake her famous pies.

Being told that her death was the result of a monster attack was nothing short of painfully infuriating. He wanted nothing more than to hunt down every last creature in the vicinity, to ensure that nothing like that could ever happen again.

All of the sudden, he had a light bulb moment. Maybe Bobby would know what had killed the people at the station. “Bobby, do you know of anything that might have caused deaths where the victims were found bleeding from the eyes, ears, and nose?” He felt a single-minded intensity overtaking him. He allowed it to, letting it direct his mind towards solving the mystery.

“Bleeding? I don’t know of any creature that can do that. Why, is this another case of yours?”

Something like that. “Yeah.”

“Well, I guess it could have been a spell. I’ve got a book that lists some of the effects of different spells and how to reverse them. You can look through that.”

So apparently spells were a real thing as well. “Sounds great.” Then he had a thought. “Could Sam be under a spell?” he asked.

“It’s possible, though I've never heard of any sleeping spells, except for in stories,” Bobby mused. “I’ll tell you what. Castiel and I can look into what’s affecting Sam while you try to find your spell,” Bobby suggested.

They researched well into the night, unwilling to give up a single moment. It got to the point where Dean was literally unable to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds, try as he might to stay awake. Bobby had already nodded off at the table amidst his veritable city of paper and ink, and was gently snoring into a tome thicker than Dean’s legs.

When Dean’s arm slipped out from where it was supporting his head and it nearly hit the table, Castiel staged an intervention. He was the one to order Dean into his bed, arguing that they were of no use to Sam if they weren’t able to keep their eyes open. They could all do with a night of rest, himself included. He woke up Bobby and they both headed back to their respective apartments, though none of them bothered with cleaning up the books. They were just going to open them back up again tomorrow.

Dean fell into bed exhaustedly, punching his pillow into shape to get comfortable. He was feeling strangely pessimistic, doubtful they would ever find a solution.

It was probably due to this that he inevitably had horrible nightmares that night.

He was with Sam, both of them holding guns. They were running, following the sound of a voice far in the distance.

They caught up to the voice, which turned out to be coming from Castiel, except he wasn’t Castiel. Sure, he looked basically the same, but he had an air of _wrongness_ about him. “Cas?” Dean called, and Castiel turned to face them.

His eyes, instead of their normal deep sapphire blue, had turned completely black, including the sclera. Dean raised his gun.

“What’d you do to him?” he demanded, as the thing that wasn’t Castiel stepped closer. It tilted its head, just like Castiel did, a perfect mockery. When it spoke, the voice that flowed from it was smooth and oily, even though it still held that characteristic roughness to it.

“Oh, Dean,” the thing purred, reaching up to cup his face. Dean flinched back.

Sam came out of nowhere, firing his gun at not-Castiel. He hit an invisible barrier, and the thing looked at him condescendingly, like one might look at a bug that had dared to attack. It flicked its other arm out, and Sam went flying backwards out of sight.

Dean was petrified, frozen in place by the weight of the endless gaze it leveled at him. He struggled to move as it stalked closer, closer, like a predator readying to pounce on its prey. It was lunging for his throat, and then he was choking, unable to draw in air—

He woke up with a gasp, clutching at nonexistent hands wrapped around his throat. It took a moment for his heartbeat to return to a normal rate, and his breathing to slow down until he was no longer in danger of hyperventilating.

He stumbled to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face, resting his forearms on the edge of the sink while he tried to collect himself. He looked up at his reflection in the mirror, and nearly fell over at what he saw.

His own eyes were completely black, staring back at him cruelly. He blinked twice, and when that didn’t dispel the image, he rubbed at them furiously. No change.

Deciding it must have been a trick played by his too-tired mind, he turned off the tap and went back to bed, hoping to catch a couple more hours of sleep.

To his surprise, it was easy for him to fall asleep again—he must have been more tired than he’d thought. However, he immediately returned to nightmares filled with more monsters and creatures of his imagination.

He ran, he hid, he fought, kicked, and scratched; still he found himself beaten again and again by them. He watched Sam, Castiel, Bobby, Charlie, and other faceless, nameless people die in countless ways, only to be brought back to life again as those black-eyed monstrosities.

He fell in and out of sleep, each time becoming more tired and more unwilling to go back to sleep.

He gave up around five in the morning, dragging himself into the kitchen for coffee. He had a feeling he was going to need it if he wanted to avoid dropping off in the middle of a conversation.

~*~

The rest of the day was more of the same, just with a significant increase in his paranoia, though he preferred to call it vigilance. Now that he knew what was out there, there were a lot more reasons to be cautious.

It was maybe because of this that Dean found himself jumping at shadows throughout the day. He would be turning to talk to Castiel or Bobby, or be getting up to get something to eat, and then, out of the corner of his eye, something would _shift._ He would pause, whipping his head around to try to pin whatever it was down, but everything appeared normally.

What was even worse was that his eyes still had not returned to normal. He had started to wear sunglasses indoors, claiming that his concussion had started to act up and that the light was making his head ache, when he was questioned about it.

He had also started to pull away from Castiel too, after the events of last night; although he knew it had only been a dream, he still didn’t feel completely comfortable around him.

To his chagrin, Castiel noticed his avoidance, as well as his skittish behavior, and asked him what was wrong, his tone full of concern.

“Oh, just didn’t sleep very well last night,” he said, purposely not looking Castiel in the eye. It wasn’t even a lie. Castiel backed off a little after that, but Dean noticed him watching him closely, on more than one occasion. As long as Castiel didn’t start to bitch about him, Dean could let it slide. He didn’t want to call even _more_ attention to himself.

To make matters worse, the sleep deprivation was clearly getting to him, because he kept misplacing things. First the book he had been reading (which he found in the fridge), then his socks (they had been on his feet the entire time, hadn't they?), and his gun, which was a serious scare, because if it had been stolen or something, there was no telling what could happen. When he looked again, however, it was right where he’d left it, hanging with the rest of his gear.

He brushed it off as exhaustion and left it at that.

~*~

He thought he would be able to fall asleep easily that night, considering how drained he felt, but that was not the case. Once more, he fell into a restless doze, nightmares haunting his sleep. Around one in the morning he gave up on sleep altogether, trudging into the kitchen to fix a pot of coffee.

He read until Castiel knocked on the door like he did every day since Sam had fallen into the coma, at 8 o’clock on the dot. They exchanged greetings, and went right back to their books.

Bobby showed up sometime around noon, because he had braved the snowstorm still raging outside for the chance to trek to the library and store to get more research books and food. He had returned relatively unscathed, which was surprising, considering the fact that when Dean had tried to go outside earlier, he had nearly been blasted off his feet by gusts of wind accompanied with stinging ice shards flying into his eyes.

Bobby stomped into the room clutching his prize tightly beneath his coat, flinging his wet garments aside.

“Here we go. The Book of the Damned,” Bobby said, tossing it down onto the table with a heavy _thunk._

“That’s a pleasant name,” Dean commented as he reached for it, flipping open the slightly mildewing cover. Gross.

The rotting pages were covered in ancient text, lines and shapes making up what looked like… was that _cuneiform_? And he’d found it at the library?

“Bobby, there’s no way I can read this!” Dean complained.

“Calm down, boy, ya think I don’t know that?” Bobby lectured, pulling the book towards him. ­“Luckily for you, I've picked it up over the years. Now, this first part here, it’s basically an introduction,” he said, gesturing to the first page. “It’s warning us to… ‘beware of the costs’.”

“It is common knowledge that magic comes with a price,” Castiel said. “I don’t like that book, though. It feels… wrong. Are you sure it’s safe?”

“What do you mean, ‘feels wrong’?” Bobby asked. When Dean risked a glance, he saw that Bobby’s eyes now held that terrifying black shine to them.

Castiel either didn’t notice or wasn’t able to see it. “It has a bad aura.” Dean rolled his eyes; he had no idea what Castiel was talking about. It was probably just more of his usual mystical bullshit.

“Well, I don’t feel anything, and this is our best bet at finding out how to fix Sam,” Dean said, effectively ending the conversation. “Bobby, what else does it say?” he asked, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in his mind that was warning him about Bobby. _Dangerous, don’t trust,_ it whispered, but that was ridiculous. He could count the number of people he explicitly trusted on one hand; he wasn’t planning on reducing that number anytime soon, especially not over something as bullshit as a _feeling,_ which may or may not have even been worth listening to.

“It goes on to list the consequences for another few pages,” Bobby said, flipping forward. “Here we go. This section seems to be about spells for ‘vanquishing your enemies’. Think it could be here?”

“I dunno, you're the expert.”

“I’ll keep looking. Have you finished the first book yet?” he asked.

“No, but—”

“Well then, why don’t you make yourself useful and work on that, like Castiel is doing.”

‘ _Oh, ‘why don’t you make yourself useful’, like I've done anything but that! Why can’t you be more like Castiel, Dean, look at how helpful he's being! Perfect Castiel with his stupid hair and stupid eyes and stupid voice,’_ Dean thought viciously as he threw himself into the chair.

He continued to stew, occasionally peeking up at Castiel, who was studying his book with an almost adorable concentration, though Dean adamantly refused to think of it like that. ‘ _Stupid Castiel and his stupid attractiveness. Why can’t he be normal? It’s goddamn unfair. It’s a crime, that’s what it is. It’s like every cheesy rom-com ever.’_

Suddenly, Castiel looked up and caught him, pinning him in place with that electrifying stare. Dean’s heart nearly stopped and his stomach dropped down to his knees like it was suddenly full of 20 pounds of lead, because his eyes had flickered black, just like in his awful dream. His breath caught in his throat.

It felt like every moment was dragging by in slow motion, sounds reaching his ears distantly, people moving far too fast. He was dimly aware of the hard linoleum floor under him, and thought, _how did that happen?_

“-eathe, Dean, you need to breathe—” He heard Castiel’s muffled voice in his ear, right next to him, _too close,_ and lashed out randomly, feeling his elbow connect with something. He scrambled away until his back hit something hard, and even then he cringed away when someone got too close; he didn’t know who, but it didn’t matter, because they were both evil, both coming for him.

Boots appeared in his vision, and he briefly freaked out again, when he felt something pressed into his hand, and his hand held up to his ear.

“Dean?” It was Charlie’s voice, coming through the phone. He felt all the breath leave him at once.

“Charlie?”

“Yeah, it’s me; you need to calm down, okay? Nothing is going to hurt you, but you need to take a deep breath. Come on, do it with me, just like before.” She demonstrated.

He shakily inhaled, then exhaled, noting distantly that there was no sign of Castiel or Bobby.

“Right, just like that. With me, again,” she commanded, and they kept at it until his breathing had returned to a normal pace and he could think clearly.

“Thanks,” he said roughly, clearing his throat.

“You're welcome. Do you want to talk about what just happened?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about anything else?” What she meant was, _do you need a distraction right now?_ He was grateful for the offer, but he didn’t feel up to it.

“No, but thanks anyway.”

“Okay. Call me if you need me.” She hung up. Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, then pushed himself up off the uncomfortable ground. His foot had fallen asleep, and it took its revenge on him, pricking him with pins and needles as he walked out of the kitchen.

He peeked around the corners cautiously as he made his way towards Sam’s bedroom; he didn’t think he could handle facing Castiel or Bobby right now.

He heard low voices coming from the living room, so he avoided it entirely, and slipped into Sam’s room silently, shutting the door behind him.

He sat there for hours, the simple sight of his brother enough to calm his raging mind, even if Sam was asleep (maybe indefinitely, his traitorous brain commented).

A small knock on the door drew his attention, but he didn’t move until he heard footsteps receding. He opened the door as quietly as he could, looking down to see a small plate of food sitting on the floor in front of him. He gathered it up and retreated back into the safety of the bedroom, where he quickly finished his dinner, and, tired down to his very bones, fell asleep shortly after with his head pillowed on his arms next to Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

He and Castiel were having breakfast together, and everything was normal, like it should be. Dean said something, Castiel laughed, free and open and unashamed. Dean found himself slowly falling for this mysterious, awkward dork who wouldn’t know a pop culture reference if it bit him in the ass.

Then everything changed. Castiel turned a cruel smile on him, eyes black as night. ‘ _Oh, great, another one of these dreams,’_ he thought. Even though he knew he was asleep, he couldn’t stop himself from reacting as if it was actually happening.

He was powerless to do anything as the creature that had stolen Castiel’s body crept closer. A rotten stench rose from it, making him gag in revulsion.

“Don’t worry, Dean. Castiel isn’t dead. Safe and sound, trapped up here,” the thing said, tapping its temple. “Oh, how he's _screaming_ for you.”

“What are you?” Dean choked out.

“Me? I’m your _worst nightmare._ I’m the thing that makes grown men weep with fear. I’m a demon, and I've got you, all of you, right where I want you.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Why us?” The demon laughed.

“Because it’s fun!” it shouted gleefully. “You and little Sammy have some of the strongest souls I've ever seen. _Fascinating.”_

Souls? Dean had the feeling he was deeper in over his head than he originally thought. “While you're at it, mind telling me your evil plan?” he snarked, feeling recklessly brave, now that he was holding some more information.

“Sorry, Dean-o, but that’s just not in the cards for today!” the demon pouted, still never losing that wide smile. Which seemed kind of like a paradox, but somehow, it pulled it off.

“Dang, and here I was hoping you were too stupid to live.”

The demon’s smile changed, losing all mirth and turning into something sick and twisted. “Joke while you still can, Dean. Soon you won’t even have that.”

He lurched awake, and just barely made it to the bathroom, where he fell to his knees in front of the toilet and threw up what felt like everything he’d eaten in the past week.

Once he was sure he wasn’t going to puke again—he wasn’t even sure he _could_ puke again, he had emptied his stomach so thoroughly—he stumbled out of the bathroom, still feeling kind of nauseous and dizzy.

Maybe once he got some food back into his system, he would feel better. At least, that’s what he told himself, staggering to the kitchen.

Bobby and Castiel were in there, though neither was looking at him at the moment; Bobby was absorbed with translating the Book of the Damned, and Castiel was busy doing something at the sink. Dean froze like a deer caught in headlights.

Neither had noticed him propping himself up in the doorway, and Dean was at a loss for what to do. Did he continue on as planned, ignoring the events of yesterday, or did he turn tail and run, hoping they didn’t catch him leaving?

Castiel solved his ultimatum for him, choosing that moment to turn around, clutching a small, steaming cup close to his chest. When he saw Dean, he nearly dropped it.

“Dean, you're awake.” It was a completely unnecessary statement. Fortunately, Dean was saved from having to think of a reply for it, because Castiel continued speaking. “Are you… okay now?”

Was he okay now? Dean nearly laughed. ‘Buddy, I'm not even close to okay. We passed the point of _okay_ a long time ago,’ was what he wanted to say. Instead, he settled for something more neutral: a simple shrug.

However, that wasn’t enough for Castiel; he pressed on. “We need to talk about what happened yesterday.” Dean didn’t answer; this was _so_ far from what he wanted to be doing right now.

“He’s right, Dean,” Bobby gently interjected. “We need to know what that was, what caused it, and how we can stop it from happening again.”

Dean felt helpless. He didn’t even know where to start. “I don’t know what you guys want me to say,” he said quietly.

“Was it something I did?” Castiel asked him, staring into his cup like it held all the answers. Dean couldn’t see his eyes, and wasn’t even sure he would want to.

“No, not—not you.” Something about his phrasing must have caught Castiel’s attention.

“But something about me.” Dean was convinced the only way he could look _more_ miserable and guilty was if he had been informed that his entire family had just died, and he was directly responsible for each of their deaths.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Tell me, please, whatever it is, I can fix it, I’ll—”

“It’s stupid and unimportant, and I'm fine, you don’t need to—”

“It’s obviously important if it made you react like that, we can—”

“Damn it, Cas, why can’t you just leave it alone?!” That little outburst shut everybody up. Dean collapsed into the nearest wooden chair.

“Dean—” Bobby lightly placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, but even that proved to be too much.

“Don’t touch me, don’t _fucking_ touch me—” He felt his breathing start to speed up, and knew another attack was coming on, but didn’t know how to stop it. Bobby immediately retracted his hand, retreating to a safe distance away.

Dean focused on taking in deep breaths, making sure he wasn’t doing it too fast. He was able to stave off the panic before it got too bad, and after only a few minutes he felt stable enough. He unclenched his fists and let out one last deep breath.

“Dean?” It was tentative, like Castiel was unsure of himself.

“I swear to fucking God, Cas, if you ask me about _anything_ related to that right now, I will fucking end you myself.” He glared at Castiel; Bobby was nowhere to be seen.

Castiel swallowed. “I thought that now might be a good time to inform you that we think we know what Sam is cursed with.”

“Seriously?” And God, he did not need to get his hopes up just so they could be crushed, but he couldn’t help himself. “Did you find a cure?” He latched on to the distraction eagerly.

“No.” Dean’s face fell. “Well, I shouldn’t say that. We found one, but it’s nearly impossible to activate.”

“Cas, as long as you found something, I don’t care if it requires having afternoon tea with the devil himself for the rest of my life, and afterlife.”

“The curse itself is rather unorthodox. It has rendered Sam unconscious, yes, but that’s barely scratching the surface. Have you noticed that even though he’s been sleeping for almost a week now, but hasn’t lost any muscle mass? He also hasn’t required any food or drink the entire time.”

Dean hadn't thought of that, but to be fair, he had barely remembered to feed himself the past couple of days.

“It seems like whoever cast the spell wanted Sam, for all intents and purposes, incapacitated, but not dead. I have a theory, but you may not like it.”

“Hit me with it. I want to hear anything and everything you have to say about this,” Dean said.

“Well, first of all, you said that you knew it was Azazel who cast the spell. If that’s true, then I think he’s using your brother as a sort of… power source.”

“A power source,” Dean repeated.

“That’s not exactly what I mean, but it’s the closest explanation. I believe the reason he has been able to escape capture so long is because, for one, he has a wide range of magical abilities, and two, he’s using your brother’s energy to boost his own.”

“That… makes sense, oddly enough. But why Sam?” Dean had a flashback to asking the demon of his dream the same thing, and suppressed a shiver.

“That part I haven’t worked out yet.” He sighed, and Dean got the feeling that part of the conversation had drawn to a close. “I’m going to go sit with Sam for a bit, if that’s alright with you.”

“Yeah, no, go ahead.” He waved Castiel on. “I need to call Charlie anyway, tell her that we’re dealing with magic here.”

He pulled out his cell phone, waiting until Castiel had disappeared into Sam’s room. Charlie picked up on the first ring.

She was surprisingly accepting of the fact that they were dealing with magic. Unsurprisingly, she was just as angry as he was with Azazel. He told her all that he knew, and was deliberating on whether or not to tell her about Sam when the call suddenly cut off.

“What—?” He lifted the phone away from his ear in confusion. “Of fucking course,” he grumbled. No reception. It had to be the storm, wreaking havoc everywhere it went.

He wandered around for a while, having nothing to do. Eventually he decided to check on Castiel, in case he wanted company. Dean wanted to try to fix the semi-awkwardness that had settled in ever since his first freak-out, and figured that talking to him would be the first step.

He crept to Sam’s room silently, trying to be as least intrusive as possible. When he got to the doorway he nearly tripped over his own feet, because _what the FUCK?_

Castiel was kneeling on the floor, hands placed on Sam’s forehead and chest. His eyes were closed in concentration, his lips moving silently to form strange vowels.

As Dean watched, steam began to rise from Castiel’s teacup, thick and billowing. It grew in volume, filling up the entire room until Dean could hardly see anything. His nose was clogged with the earthy scents of rosemary, sage, and a few other spices he couldn’t identify.

Castiel’s chanting grew louder, his voice rumbling out alien sounds in one steady stream. It was like no language Dean had ever heard before, yet it fell off Castiel’s tongue with ease. The fog was steadily thickening, but one by one, tiny floating lights were starting to appear. _Like fireflies,_ Dean thought absently, entranced. He felt as if he were in a dream state.

He must have made a noise or something, because the lights flickered and failed, haze rapidly disappearing, and Castiel’s eyes snapped open. He fell onto his butt in surprise, but scrambled up instantly. Dean’s mind cleared.

The first thing he felt was wonder, but that was quickly being overtaken by anger and hurt. He felt betrayed. “What—” His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat and tried again. “What the _hell_ was that?”

Castiel’s face had a distinctly pinched look to it. “This isn’t what it looks like,” he offered.

Dean’s calm didn’t betray the rage he was feeling. “Then what is it, Cas? Because it looks like you were doing—I don’t even know— _magic_ on my brother,” he said icily.

“Well, yes, but—” He stopped, gathering his thoughts. “This is a very long story,” he said miserably.

“Then you better get telling.”

“Let me check on Sam first?” he begged. Dean deliberated, but it was no contest. Sammy’s wellbeing would always win.

“Fine,” he conceded, heading out to the living room. Castiel followed him not even a minute later, wringing his hands in that trench coat of his.

“I have good news and bad news. Sam didn’t wake up, like I planned, but I was able to confirm the source of the spell. We were right; it is Azazel.”

Well, that was something, at least. It was disappointing to know that Sam’d had a chance to wake up, but knowing for certain that Azazel was the cause of all this was a consolation prize of sorts.

“So you do magic,” Dean stated. It felt weird saying it out loud.

“Kind of?” Dean wasn’t amused, and Castiel hurried to start again. “I’m able to do certain types of magic, namely, anything relating to nature in some way. So, organics like animals, plants, and humans.”

“Are you like… some sort of witch?”

“Not… really,” he said, wincing. Muttering, “Of course you would manage to stumble upon that within one minute.

“I'm not exactly human.”

Dean’s brain blinked offline. “What?”

“I’m a different species; my… family, I guess you could say, lives in the forest. Our anatomy is basically the same as a human’s. We can all do organic magic, especially if we have strong connections to others.” At Dean’s blank look, he sighed. “I’m not doing a very good job of explaining this. Basically, the more people we know and form bonds with, the stronger, and more controlled, our magic is.”

“If you guys live in the forest, how come you're here, in the city?”

“Personal choice. I found my family oppressive and stifling, and moved away so I could find my freedom. I’ve always held a certain… fondness for the human race.” He smiled. “Your creations are so ingenious. I moved to the city as soon as I could.”

“So, your healing potions and stuff… they’re actually magic?” Dean surmised.

“Yes. That’s also why I run my shop; I need to socialize with people in order for my magic to remain in control.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he blurted out, no longer bothering to mask the betrayal he felt.

“Would you have believed me if I did?” Castiel countered. “I couldn’t take the chance. What if you had tried to get me killed, or worse?”

He had a point, but Dean kept on. “That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve basically been lying to my face for weeks now! And then you went and did your nature voodoo shit on my brother, without either of our permission!”

“I had no other, choice, Dean! You’ve been acting weird lately, and I got desperate,” he snapped.

“It was a selfish thing to do. What if it backfired? You said yourself that your magic is hard to control. It didn’t even work in the first place!”

“At least I'm actually trying to do something, unlike you! You’ve done nothing but mope for days!” he shouted. Dean blanched, and Castiel immediately looked guilty.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said quietly. Dean walked into Sam’s room and slammed the door so hard it rattled in its frame. It didn’t make him feel any better.

~*~

The days were starting to blur together. He’d never felt more alone in a crowded place. Even the cluttered apartment itself seemed to be more malevolent than usual, as if it were hiding things in its dusty corners, shrinking in on them as if to suffocate them. This morning, he had thought he had seen his reflection moving on its own in the bathroom mirror, and when he checked, his eyes were the same oily black.

Dean hadn't spoken to Castiel since their awful argument, only talking to Bobby when necessary. He was getting lost in his own thoughts more often than not, the demon’s horrible words haunting him. He wondered if the demon could possibly be real, and dream walking somehow; after all, anything was possible. Dean was learning to accept that mantra in the wake of the chaos his world had become.

~*~

“Dean!” Dean jumped. It didn’t sound like it was the first time Bobby had called his name.

“What?” he snapped.

“I asked you to pass me the coriander.” Dean did so, not really paying attention. Bobby had thought it would be a good idea to try one of his own spells on Sam, so here he was, handing Bobby increasingly odd ingredients.

“All right, it’s done.” Bobby dusted off his hands and picked up the silver bowl, then went into Sam's room alone. Dean didn’t want to interfere, or risk screwing it up. He sat at the table and watched idly as a rare ray of sunlight hit a dust mote just right, illuminating the spinning particle as it drifted down to join the countless others that rested around the apartment.

The entire scene had an unearthly quality about it. Colors looked duller, sounds seemed muffled, everything muted. It was like time was frozen forever in this moment, the entire world holding its breath and just waiting for the next catastrophic thing to happen.

The tension was palpable in the air as everyone did their level best to figure shit out. Dean could tell that Bobby knew something had changed between him and Castiel; he was treating each of them with more caution, stepping carefully around issues that might be problematic.

Of course, with Dean’s current attitude, nearly everything was problematic. He couldn’t understand what was wrong with him, why he kept lashing out at everybody. (Not to mention the hallucinations.)

After more pondering, he chalked it up to stress and sleep deprivation, sure that he would return to normal once Sam was walking and talking again. And after he got that son of a bitch Azazel’s head on a stick.

It didn’t take very long for Bobby to declare defeat. “It looks like whatever Azazel did can only be reversed by him. Either that, or it’s permanent.”

Dean didn’t respond. What was the point?

“Did you hear me, Dean?” Bobby demanded.

“I heard you, just don’t have anything to say,” Dean snipped.

Bobby wasn’t having any of it. “Boy, I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, but it needs to stop right now! Me ‘n Castiel haven’t done anything to deserve this,” he exploded. “I've given you space, and I've given you time, but you need to tell me what’s goin’ on, so we can fix it.”

“I don’t owe you anything—”

Bobby slammed his hands down on the table. “Listen to me! You're not acting like yourself, and God knows I have tried to be patient with you, but whatever _this_ is—” He waved a hand—“it needs to stop! We’ve been with you every step of the way, and we have a right to know. So why don’t you suck it up and talk to me? Castiel, you too.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Dean insisted, but his resolve was quickly crumbling.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Castiel said. “Every time you look at me you flinch, and don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably under the close scrutiny. “You're gonna think I'm crazy.” It was a last ditch effort. Neither of his accusers moved. Dean took a deep breath, steeling himself.

“Ever since Sam was cursed, I haven’t been sleeping that well. Basically, I've been having nightmares where you were possessed by demons.” He shook his head. “Stupid, I know.” Bobby looked as if he was going it say something, but Castiel shushed him.

“Go on, Dean.”

“I thought it was just the stress, you know? Like, it isn’t every day you find out that magic and monsters are real. But then I started to—this is gonna sound really bad, but it’s fine, okay—see things.” The last part was a whisper.

“What kinds of things?” Bobby prompted.

“Well, when I caught up to Azazel, it looked like his eyes were black, and sometimes… you guys’ eyes look the same.”

Bobby couldn’t seem to restrain himself any longer. “Don’t worry, Dean, you're not going crazy. At least, not completely. But demons are real, and if you were dreaming about one, that probably means it was dream walking. Do you know who it was possessing?”

Dean flinched. “Um, it was Castiel.” He could practically see the cogs turning in Castiel’s head as he pieced the puzzle together.

“Dean, I’m so sorry. If I had known I was making you uncomfortable…”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, it isn’t. But I made it worse.” Castiel looked positively miserable.

“We can argue more about whose fault it is after we find out how to reverse this. Did the demon say anything else? Even its name would be helpful.”

“It said it was going after Sam and I, something about our souls.” Bobby paled. “What? What’s wrong?” Dean asked, a bad feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

“If a demon is after your souls, this is worse than we thought.”

“Why? Castiel asked. “How is it any different? So what if they want souls rather than lives? It’s not like there’s anything we can do about it, unless we manage to take down Azazel,” he said bitterly.

“Are we even sure it is Azazel?” Bobby asked. His eyes switched to black as Dean watched. “For all we know, he could be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“No, Castiel did—” Dean stopped and looked at Castiel guiltily. It wasn’t his secret to tell. Bobby caught on, though.

“Castiel did what?” he asked in a low voice. Castiel shot a glare at Dean. _Sorry,_ he tried to communicate telepathically.

“Do you remember how I cleared this building of roaches when I first moved here? And Karen was so pleased, she let me stay here for free while I got my feet under me?” he led.

“Yeah,” Bobby said gruffly. “And?”

“I wasn’t a foreign exchange student like I said, and my methods of getting the cockroaches out was… unconventional.” He was dancing around the subject, trying to break it to Bobby gently, but Dean knew from years of experience that wasn’t going to work.

“Meaning?”

“I’m another species, called the Mundamagis by the old explorers; I came to the city when I was mature enough and can do magic,” he said, all in a rush.

Bobby blinked. “Oh.”

“Point being, I used my power to pinpoint the source of whatever is affecting Sam, and it’s Azazel.” His face brightened suddenly with an idea. “Dean, would you mind if I did the same to you?”

“Uh, I dunno, man. Does it hurt?”

“Not usually. I've had a better control of my powers since I've started spending more time with you.” Immediately he flushed scarlet, and looked like he wanted to take it back. Dean decided to ignore that last part, mostly because he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to something like that.

Dean was willing to take the chance, if it meant he could finally go after that bastard. Almost against his will, he was starting to trust Castiel more and more with each passing day. It infuriated him. “Yeah, I guess so. Do I need to do anything?” God, he hoped it wouldn’t involve any of that weird hazy feeling he’d had when he’d been watching earlier.

“It usually helps if I have certain herbs present, as they help to concentrate the power in the direction I want. But no, you don’t have to do anything; just be warned that you may feel dizzy or tired afterwards. The spell requires a lot of energy. You may want to lie down.”

While Castiel went to make more of his weird tea, Dean got comfortable on the couch. In good news, his ribs were hurting less and less every day, as well as his head.

Castiel came back in not long afterwards, kneeling next to Dean like before. “Just breathe deeply and try to relax,” he advised, placing his hands on him.

Immediately Dean felt a rush of… something, kind of like static electricity crackling up his spine. He tried not to shiver. The room started to fill with dense steam, like before, and Dean watched as the firefly lights appeared again. They winked in and out of his vision, flying erratically to and fro.

Dean drifted for a while, forgetting to be nervous, before he was pulled out of his reverie. A strange feeling was building in his chest, like a sense of vague wandering. Was that Castiel, looking for the source?

The feeling sharpened into something more defined, a purposeful searching now. Dean instinctively closed his eyes. It seemed his body knew how to deal with this. He tried to envision the malignant thing affecting him, like a large, vicious leech sucking all of the life out of his soul. He could feel Castiel’s energy beside him, helping him along. Castiel filled him with the desire to find this soul-leech, and pushed it at him.

It was like a spark going off. Dean and Castiel’s minds were one, racing through space towards their goal together. It was exhilarating. They sped over the streets of the city, weaving in and out of alleys as the magic propelled them along.

It ended all too soon, as they slowed to a stop in front of a decrepit, nondescript brick building. ‘ _Why is the villain’s evil lair always crumbling? As if anyone would actually want to stay in a dump like this,’_ Dean thought. He noted the address on the front of the building, right before their vision warped to show them inside.

Azazel was sitting in the middle of the room, hunched over a bowl similar to the one Bobby had. From the looks of it, he too was casting a spell; his lips moved in a chant, as he stirred the dark, syrupy concoction with his index finger.

The energy that had been holding them there seemed to fail in the next moment, however; with a sudden _snap,_ they were back in the apartment, breathing heavily. The effects from the spell disappeared, along with Dean’s lightheadedness. He blinked a few times to clear his vision.

Castiel hadn't moved from his position beside the couch, and was staring blankly into space. Dean saw an alarming trickle of blood dripping steadily from his nose.

“Cas!” He leapt off the couch, placing two steadying hands on his shoulders. “Cas, you okay?”

Castiel blinked once, twice, before his eyes focused. “Dean?” he asked faintly. “It seems that spell took more out of me than I thought.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’. Maybe you should lie down.”

“That seems prudent.” He still sounded vaguely stoned. Dean left him momentarily while he went to prepare the tea that Castiel seemed to love.

Bobby met him in the kitchen, leaning up against the doorway while he watched Dean stir in the different herbs. Dean felt the hair in the back of his neck rise in discomfort.

“What?” he said, trying to make his tone neutral.

“I just can’t figure you out. One minute you're snapping at everyone who dares to enter the same damn room as you, and the next, you're frettin’ over Castiel like a grade-A mother hen.”

Dean shrugged, not turning around. He was probably proving Bobby’s point for him, but he didn’t know what to say. ‘ _The heart wants what it wants,’_ he thought, and was immediately disgusted with himself.

Bobby hmm’ed slowly. “You really care for him,” he said, but his voice was all wrong. Dean knew that if he were to turn around, Bobby’s eyes wouldn’t be their normal blue. He also knew that he probably wouldn’t be able to keep it together if he saw that.

“Maybe,” Dean said, hoping to get him, or it, off his back. But there was no way Bobby was a demon, right? He was a hunter, too good for that sort of thing to happen. It was just the stupid spell Dean was under, making him hallucinate things.

He finished with the tea, brushing past Bobby without looking at him.

Bobby kept watching him from the doorway as he fussed over Castiel, trying not to be obvious about how he was stalling. He kept at it for as long as he could, until it would start to look obsessive if he fixed the blanket thrown over Castiel one more time.

Dean kept an eye on Bobby the rest of the afternoon, but his eyes never switched to black again. It was as if it hadn't happened in the first place. By evening, he had shoved it into the back of his mind, his plan of what to do next taking the forefront.

“I think I'm gonna turn in early tonight,” he said to Bobby, once they had finished a sparse dinner of what basically came down to vegetable soup, though it was little more than the contents of the produce drawer thrown into boiling water with a bit of salt. If they couldn’t get to the store soon, they would be in serious trouble.

“Alright. I guess I might as well; it’s not like we’ve got anything better to do than sit around anyways,” Bobby said.

Dean was careful not to give himself away as he carefully got ready for bed as he normally would. He said a quick goodnight to Bobby and set his alarm for midnight.

When it went off, he got dressed and snuck past where Bobby had fallen asleep in the armchair, to ‘keep an eye on him’. He blindly fumbled around in the dark for his gun, cursing when he knocked a wobbly pile of books over in the process. He held his breath as he heard Bobby’s snores stop, praying that he wouldn’t wake up.

Thankfully, Bobby didn’t do more than grumble and roll over, hat falling off his head in the process. Dean shut the front door behind him as quietly as he could, feeling like a teenager sneaking out to go to a party.

Yeah, this was gonna be some party alright.

He didn’t want to risk taking the Impala out in this weather, but that only left him with one other choice: hike through three feet of slush for miles. He didn’t even consider not going through with his plan.

Maybe it was his determination, maybe it was some sort of higher power protecting him, or maybe he was incredibly lucky, but the trek to his destination was easier than some workouts he’d seen Sam do. He was standing in front of the dilapidated old building from the vision in no time, feet barely wet and hands barely feeling the chill, even as fat stray snowflakes drifted down around him.

He dialed Charlie and left her a short voicemail, as a sort of failsafe should the worst happen, before drawing his gun and creeping silently into the building.

He stumbled upon Azazel in the first room he entered (convenient), opening the creaking wooden door, only to hit something behind it. Azazel stepped out from behind it, smirking.

“Hello, Dean-o,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Azazel,” Dean sneered. “So you're the one who cursed me and Sam.”

“Don’t take it so hard. It was nothing personal,” Azazel said dismissively. “Tell me, what gave it away? Obviously, there was someone else involved. I can smell the magic on you from here.” His lip curled in disgust. “Natural magic. How quaint.”

“You must be stupid if you think I’m gonna tell you who,” Dean scoffed. “On the other hand, feel like telling me how to fix my brother?”

In answer, Azazel lunged for him. ‘ _Guess not,’_ Dean thought, dodging the punch Azazel threw. He grabbed the other man’s arm, throwing him off balance. Azazel quickly recovered, turning around to face Dean. He saw there was now a gleaming knife in his hand. Had he pulled it out of some hidden pocket, or was it magic in action? There was no time to wonder as Dean was once again put on the defensive.

He was reluctant to use his gun as anything but a threat before, but he was soon going to be forced to use it if the fight didn’t end soon. They were evenly matched in terms of speed, but weeks spent inside with no exercise had sapped some of Dean’s muscle strength.

After one particularly good blow landed square on Azazel’s nose, breaking it and stunning him, Dean pulled back for a moment to catch his breath. He leveled his gun squarely at Azazel’s head. He froze, laying his surely aching head back down on the decaying floor.

He laughed, flecks of blood flying out of his mouth. Dean wiped the blood streaming from his own nose. “How do I take the spell off Sam?” he demanded again.

“Can’t tell you, Dean-o. That would ruin the _surprise._ ” He laughed again, a demented sound.

“What do you have planned? What does it have to do with the spell on me?” Azazel’s smile disappeared.

“Alastair…” Azazel muttered. He blinked, and Dean saw his eyes turn black. _Demon._ Azazel seemed to consider for a moment, raging some internal battle. The injuries Dean had wrought disappeared before his very eyes.

‘ _Let me guess, more fucking magic,’_ Dean thought viciously. “Answer me, or I’ll exorcise you!”

He was just about ready to start threatening some more when Azazel spoke. “Ah, screw it. Alastair never was a great business partner anyway. I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you how to break both spells, if you let me walk and take down Alastair.”

“A deal with a demon? No way, I’m not letting you take my soul!” Dean exclaimed. He was glad he had brushed up on his knowledge about demons before coming here tonight.

“Weren’t you listening?” Azazel snapped. “I’m not taking your soul; I’m holding you to an oath.”

“How do I know you're actually going to tell me, and not just make something up?” Dean asked suspiciously.

“Deals made with demons are binding. You break one, you go directly to Hell, do not pass Go. Look, we each have something the other wants. Let’s get on with it.” The teasing tone was gone from his voice, replaced with something almost impatient.

Dean considered a moment, but the temptation of getting his brother back was too much to ignore. He was sure he could manage getting rid of this _Alastair_ person. “Fine. Deal.”

Azazel suddenly grabbed Dean’s pant leg, forcing him to his knees. He pulled him into a rough, quick kiss, which Dean broke off as soon as possible.

“Gross, man, what the fuck was that?” he yelled.

“That’s how deals are sealed in Hell,” Azazel explained, somehow managing to be even more condescending. “Are you ready to shut up and listen, or would you like to complain some more?”

Dean glared at him.

“First things first. To take out Alastair, you’ll need—”

“Wait, hold on. I don’t even know who Alastair is.”

Azazel just stared at him. “You’re kidding me, right?” he eventually said. “Houston, we’re having a little problem with communicating,” he said under his breath. He got up off the floor and disappeared into the next room, coming back with arms full of supplies.

Dean was now more confused than ever. Before he could ask any questions, Azazel continued, readying the ingredients as he did so. “Hate to be the one to break it to you, but your dearest daddy figure is possessed. By a demon named Alastair.” Dean barely managed to stop his jaw from hitting the floor. So he hadn't been hallucinating? “He’s the one responsible for… well, basically everything.” He sounded disgruntled. Maybe mad about being slighted? It sounded as if Alastair was the power player of their dynamic duo.

“How come you want him dead so bad? If I’m doing your dirty work, I should at least know why,” Dean argued. He would’ve killed Alastair without the explanation, but maybe this way he could find out when Bobby had been possessed.

“We were working together, he strayed from the plan, and now I’m bailing. I’m not looking forward to having one of the most powerful demons on my tail, just because I'm smart enough to know when to quit.” Azazel ground up a handful of tiny bones viciously. Dean felt ill.

“The plan? You gonna tell me what that was?” Azazel looked at him sharply, and Dean suddenly remembered that he was sitting having a conversation with the literal spawn of Hell, who was also a master of spells. He felt very small.

Dean stopped trying to make conversation, and watched as Azazel finished the concoction. “There,” he said, dusting off his hands. “Have Sam take a whiff of this, and he should wake right up.” Supernatural smelling salts. Now there was something you didn’t see every day.

“The thing about Alastair is that he can’t be exorcised like your everyday, garden-variety demon. He’ll just smoke out of the meatsuit and find a new one. So that leaves you with three options: one, trap him in the meatsuit, kill the host, and then bury it somewhere deep; two, exorcise him, but trap him in his true form, and take advantage of him then; or three, kill the host using either Samuel Colt’s gun, or an ancient demon-killing knife of the Kurds, which I'm assuming you don’t have.”

“Nope, none of those lying around.” Dean fidgeted; he was anxious to get back home and check on Castiel and Sam. He’d thought they’d been safe with Bobby, but it turned out it was the complete opposite.

“Exactly. So we’re gonna go with lucky door number two.” Dean was relieved. Even for Sam, he didn’t think he could handle killing Bobby. “There’s a special exorcism that I'm going to give you; it’ll eject Alastair without sending him to Hell immediately.

“After that, you have to act quickly. If you set up a devil’s trap beforehand, that will hold him longer, but I doubt you’ll be able to without raising suspicion. Once Alastair has smoked out, you’ll need to recite an exorcism while someone else pours _this_ on him.” Azazel held up the mixture. So it was dual purpose; Dean made a mental note to learn how to make it himself. It could come in handy if something like this ever happened again.

As soon as Azazel had taught Dean the exorcism and chant, he smoked out of the body, which flopped over, losing all color. Dean checked the pulse quickly. Dead, and he probably had been for a while.

He snatched the bowl off the ground, and raced back home. He had to make sure Castiel and Sam were okay. Worst-case scenarios flashed through his head as he took the steps three at a time. What chance would a weakened Castiel and a comatose Sam have against one of the most powerful demons of Hell?

He didn’t bother with being quiet as he threw open the door; he didn’t have the time. He flipped on the lights, ready for a confrontation.

Castiel propped himself up on his elbows, squinting at Dean, unharmed. Dean breathed a sigh of relief, then remembered the threat Bobby, aka Alastair, presented.

He was no longer asleep in the armchair. “Cas, where’s Bobby?”

“Bobby? Dean, what’s going on? It’s,” he glanced at the clock, “nearly two in the morning.”

“I was just with Azazel, and listen, you need to get out of here. Bobby is—“

“You were with _Azazel?!_ Dean, why on earth would you go looking for him?”

“Shh, not so loud! It’s not important right now. You need to go to your apartment, take Sam with you, lock both of yourselves in.”

“I’m not doing anything until you explain what’s going on.” Castiel stood defiantly, arms crossed. Dean was just about to physically push him out of the door when he heard the toilet flush. He froze like a deer in headlights.

Bobby walked out of the bathroom, pausing when he saw the both of them standing there awkwardly. “What are you two doing up? And what’s this I hear about you being with Azazel, boy?” The last part was directed at Dean.

“You’re not Bobby,” Dean said lowly, subtly shifting into a defensive stance.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bobby asked, at the same time Castiel did.

“He’s a demon, Cas. He’s the reason why Sam won’t wake up, and why I keep seeing things.”

“Dean, that’s insane. You’ve known me since you were four, do I seem like a possessed person to you?” It would have been convincing if his eyes hadn't turned black.

Castiel added, “Dean, are you sure you're feeling alright?”

“I’m fine. It’s Bobby I’m worried about. Tell me, Alastair, how long have you been lying to us?”

Alastair wouldn’t give up, though. “Castiel, you don’t believe this, do you?” Castiel didn’t reply.

“Dean, where would you even get an idea like that?” Alastair asked when he didn’t get an answer out of Castiel.

“I ran into your buddy Azazel; he told me everything,” Dean bluffed, smirking. “Including how to get rid of you.” Before Alastair could say anything else, Dean lunged for him, catching him off guard. They grappled for mere moments before Alastair gathered his strength and threw Dean off. He scrambled back up, ready to continue fighting for his family.

He was so caught up in the heat of the moment that he hadn't noticed that Castiel had slipped away back to his own apartment. He heard movement behind him, and turned around only for Castiel to blow a handful of powder right in his face. Dean coughed and spluttered, lethargy overtaking him, and he collapsed into a pair of strong arms.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he heard from Castiel as his world darkened. “You're becoming a danger to yourself, and us. This is the only way.”

_You bastard._


	5. Chapter 5

An annoying ray of sunlight was peeking through the miniscule slit in the bright orange curtains, falling right across Dean’s face. He grunted, rolling over to snuggle deeper into the blankets… which didn’t feel like his did.

He opened his eyes in confusion, seeing that he was lying on an unfamiliar—but very comfortable—bed. He sat up, still feeling kind of sleepy and foggy-headed, but refreshed. He could hear the faint sounds of water running and dishes clinking through the cracked open door.

He got up and followed them to a kitchen, where Charlie stood in Star Trek-themed pajamas, washing dishes. He cleared his throat so that she would know he was there. She looked over her shoulder, smiling when she saw him. She shut the water off and dried her hands.

“Look who decided to join the land of the living.”

He smiled, not quite sure of what to say. How do you start a conversation with someone after you’ve just woken up in their bed, not even knowing how you’d gotten there in the first place? Though he suspected it had something to do with that traitor Castiel.

“Uh… I like your pajamas,” he offered weakly. She glanced down.

“Live long and prosper. How are you feeling? You must have one hell of a headache.”

“Um… I guess so. I mean, not really. Why do you say that?”

“Well, Bobby said you got hit in the head during the fight. You’ve been out for nearly two days. Let me know if you need Tylenol or something later.” Suddenly her voice hardened. “Also, when were you planning on telling me you have _a brother?”_

“A fight…” he muttered. Of course Alastair would have said that, rather than the truth. “How do you know about Sam?” he diverted.

“Bobby told me everything. How you’ve been hiding him for years, because he’s one of the most wanted criminals of the century!” Dean had never seen Charlie like this before. Gone was the playful attitude, replaced with fury and betrayal.

“I can explain,” he offered, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. “Take me back, and—”

“Take you _back?_ Not until I get an explanation for what’s been going on.”

“You don’t understand; I need to get back before Alastair does something!”

“You’re right, I don’t understand! Who the hell is Alastair?!” Shit. This was going to take too long to explain.

“He’s a demon, possessing Bobby at the moment, and he’s the one who cast the spells on me and Sam.” The cat was out of the bag now, and there was no going back. “Please, you _need_ to take me back. Sam and Cas are in danger.”

“Dean, that’s crazy! How hard were you hit in the head?” She sounded freaked out, and Dean couldn’t blame her.

“I wasn’t hit in the head, and there was never any fight. Look, I know how insane it sounds; believe me, I’ve been living it for the past week and a half. But you have to trust me.”

“Trust you? How can I trust you when you’ve been lying to me for—” The phone rang, interrupting her. She threw him a glare that said _we aren’t done here_ before grabbing the phone. “Hello?”

“Charlie?” Dean heard Castiel’s voice coming from the speaker. “Is Dean there?”

“Yeah, hold on; let me put you on speaker.”

“Dean, you were right,” Castiel said urgently. “Bobby is possessed. I used my magic on him while he was sleeping, and found out that he had a memory-erasing spell cast on him a couple months ago. I asked him about it, and the demon you called Alastair made an appearance.”

“We’ll be right over,” Dean promised, glancing at Charlie. “I have something that can wake Sam up and defeat Alastair.”

~*~

They didn’t speak much in the car, except for when he Dean asked about the snow that had mysteriously vanished, leaving only small, sad piles of slush drooping on the sidewalks.

“You were unconscious for two days,” Charlie reminded him. “It started to melt the night Bobby brought you over.” Dean wondered if it had anything to do with Azazel’s disappearance.

As soon as they came to a stop in front of the building, Dean got out of the car, Charlie right behind him. She, as always, had put behind her feelings about all of the confusion and was ready to take on whatever might be behind the door. Dean was glad to have his partner beside him once more.

“Ready?” he asked, hand on the doorknob.

“As ready as I’ll ever be. Bring it on.” He smiled when she echoed what she’d said on that first Monday so long ago. Had it really been less than two weeks since this whole fiasco started?

He pushed open the door slowly, wincing when the hinges squealed loud enough to wake the dead. Well, if Alastair hadn't already known they were here, he certainly did now.

The first thing Dean did after entering was check for Alastair. He wasn’t anywhere in immediate sight, and, fearing the worst, Dean made a beeline for Sam’s room. Thank God, Alastair wasn’t in there. But the mystery of where he was remained unsolved.

He met Charlie coming out of his room. “He’s not anywhere in the apartment,” she informed him, “unless he can turn invisible.” Suddenly she looked anxious. “He can’t, can he?”

“Not that I know of. Alright, I've got a plan. You call Castiel, since he’s either vanished off the face of the earth, in hiding, or Alastair’s got him somewhere. I’ll work on making a devil’s trap.”

To her credit, she didn’t even question that, only blinked before dialing. Dean yanked open the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink, praying that Sam hadn't thrown out the bottle of spray paint left over from one of their prank wars.

He grimaced at the color—bright orange wasn’t really inconspicuous—but it couldn’t be helped. He lifted up the ugly paisley doormat and got to work, glancing at Bobby’s book every once in a while to make sure he was doing it right. This couldn’t fail when they needed it.

Just as he was putting on the finishing touches, Charlie came back, looking worried. “He’s not picking up.” _Damn it._

“Try again,” he ordered, replacing the doormat on top of the trap. Castiel still wasn’t picking up, if Charlie’s expression was anything to go by.

 _“Fuck,”_ he muttered, getting out his own phone. After a third failed attempt to contact Castiel, Dean dialed Bobby’s number, a sick feeling in his stomach.

There was no greeting, no bantering, just the _click_ that told him someone on the other end had picked up. “Alastair,” Dean said at length. “I think we have some unfinished business.”

“I think you're right,” Alastair replied. “How about a deal. I will return Castiel if you surrender yourself and Sam.” Dean’s breath caught in his throat.

“No fucking way. You can have me, but you’re never getting your hands on him.”

“And therein lies our problem, I’m afraid,” Alastair said regretfully. “I need the complete set, so to speak.”

“Even if I were to give us up to you, how can I be sure that you would honor the deal?”

Alastair seemed to brighten at what he thought was Dean beginning to cave. “I can draw us up a binding contract. If either of us breaks it, we die. Simple as that. As a show of good faith, you can pick the meeting location.”

Dean pretended to mull it over. “Alright. We’re both at our apartment.” Alastair hung up, and not seconds later, he heard a knock at the door.

“Here’s the plan. As soon as he comes in, the devil’s trap should hold him. I can deal with it from there, but if it doesn’t work, or he notices it or something else happens, I need you to be ready. He’ll probably throw me around a bit, and so your job will be to distract him enough that I can lure him into the trap. If that fails, just start to recite the exorcism in that book there.” Dean pointed at the tome in question, then went to let Castiel and Alastair in.

Castiel was the first to enter the apartment, though it was less of his own free will and more like falling forward as soon as the door’s support abandoned him. Dean caught him in a reversal of roles from two days earlier. “What the hell did you do to him?” he yelled angrily at Alastair. He dragged Castiel over the threshold, careful not to disturb the rug and clue in Alastair.

“He’ll be fine,” Alastair said dismissively, not moving any closer. “Now, why don’t you come out here and we can make the deal?”

“Why don’t you come in here?” Dean countered. “You said I decide where. Well, I choose inside the apartment.”

Alastair ground his teeth. Maybe he suspected Dean would have security measures in place. “A compromise, then. Over the threshold, and no one has to leave their respective places until after the deal is made.” It was the best Dean was going to get out of him. He agreed.

The kiss was just as, if not more, disgusting the second time around, and Dean broke it off as soon as he could. There was just something inherently _wrong_ about kissing Bobby, even if it wasn’t really him at the moment. He couldn’t decide what was worse to think about, kissing Alastair, or Bobby. It sounded like a round of Would You Rather.

Dean pulled back, and suddenly hands were locked around him, yanking him forward. He resisted, ducking out from under the grip and grabbing on himself. He tugged as hard as he could, and they both fell backwards, right on top of the devil’s trap Dean had made. Success.

He untangled himself from the pile of limbs, staggering to his feet and walking away from the furious Alastair, only to hit an invisible barrier that he bounced right off of. What the…? He looked down in confusion, seeing the paint line where the barrier apparently was. No.

Alastair laughed from behind him, getting to his feet as well. “Looks like someone’s out of the loop,” he mocked. “Azazel, you can come out now.”

Dean tried to say something, maybe a question, maybe a curse, but found himself unable to do it. He tried to move, even just a twitch of a finger, only for that to result in failure as well. _It can’t be._

“Ooh, that feels good,” he heard himself say, feeling his arms and back stretch like someone might do after waking up from a particularly long nap. ‘ _Right you are, Dean-o,’_ he heard Azazel say inside his head. He felt like he might puke.

“So, fill me in. What’d I miss?” Azazel asked.

“Not much, just a deal I made. You’ll be pleased; I got both of them in exchange for giving up that one,” Alastair informed him, nodding at Castiel.

“You’re kidding!” Azazel laughed delightedly, clapping his hands together. “Everything is falling into place.”

“Well, almost everything. As soon as I get us out of this devil’s trap, we can grab the brother and get out of here.” Azazel looked around them for the first time.

“Ah, that _is_ an inconvenience,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Charlie inching towards the book he’d directed her to. He almost cheered, but refrained out of fear that it would catch Azazel’s attention.

Azazel turned to say something, but was interrupted by Charlie’s strong voice reciting the exorcism. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”

Azazel whipped his head around faster than a rattlesnake attacks, adrenaline pumping through Dean’s veins heavy and exhilarating.

Charlie continued, “Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos!”

Azazel screamed, a horrible sound filled with frustration and pain, and Dean felt him being ripped out of his mind like a bullet dug out of a festering wound. It burned, until it didn’t and he could move of his own free will again, straight out of the devil’s trap.

“Dean! Is that you? Are you okay?” Charlie asked, breathless.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he confirmed, gasping for air. “I’m good, we need to deal with Alastair.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the door.

“How come he wasn’t exorcised like you were?” she asked.

“He’s more powerful, or something like that. Get the packet of herbs out of my coat, would you?” He cleared his throat, and started to recite the exorcism Azazel had given him. Alastair’s face was twisted into an expression of fury and malice in equal parts, and that only encouraged Dean. He increased in volume, until the only thing he could hear was himself.

He reached the end, and with one last scream, Alastair smoked out. “Now, Charlie! Throw the potion!” She did. The thick black smoke hissed and vanished whenever it came into contact with it, until all that was left to indicate Alastair had ever been there at all were the steaming piles of goo on the floor. Oh, and Bobby’s body, lying prone in the doorway.

“Bobby?” Dean and Charlie rushed over to him and turned him over onto his back, examining him for any signs of life.

“I can hear a pulse!” Charlie exclaimed after a few terrifying moments.

“Thank God,” Dean breathed. “We should probably all just go to the hospital at this point,” he joked, trying to make light of the situation.

“Or the psych ward,” Charlie muttered. Dean left her with Bobby, going to check on Castiel. He found a pulse there too, and something clenched deep in his chest loosened. He carefully arranged Castiel in a more comfortable position than the boneless sprawl he’d been in where Dean had dropped him.

Next Dean grabbed what little was left of the potion, hoping there would be enough to wake up Sam. He didn’t have to worry, though; when he walked in the room, Sam was sitting up on the bed, eyes wide and breathing heavily.

“Dean,” he said urgently, eyes falling on his brother. Dean beamed, and rushed to help Sam out of the bed. He felt like a great weight had been lifted off his chest; he was so happy he could cry. He pulled Sam into a long hug, saying, “Man, is it good to hear your voice again, Sammy.” Sam nodded, hugging back just as tightly.

~*~

There was a lot of catching up to be done after everyone had woken up. They were trying to fill in Sam and Charlie as best as possible, all while trying to piece it together themselves. Surprisingly, Castiel had more answers than Bobby, even though he’d been the one possessed by Alastair.

“I can’t even imagine it, Bobby. Possessed for three years? How did you not go insane?” Dean asked.

“Well, he was dormant for most of the time. He only started to take control recently; you saw.”

“Like Azazel did with me,” Dean confirmed.

“It appears that Alastair and Azazel both had the means to erase your memories after you’d been possessed. I’d guess that Azazel took advantage of when you went to see him two days ago, Dean. Bobby, do you have any idea when Alastair might have contacted you?” Castiel said.

“I think I actually know when,” Dean interjected. “While Azazel was rooting around inside my head, he left a few of his own memories on display. It must have been right after Karen died, since they wanted to make a deal with you, Bobby.”

“That sounds right to me,” Castiel said. At the confused looks from everybody, he elaborated. “Alastair was in my head as well, when he drained my energy. I got a glimpse of his plan.”

“Care to share what it was?” Charlie asked, when he didn’t explain.

“They promised to resurrect Karen after ten years, and in return Bobby would give his soul, body, and mind in service to them. Of course, the deal has been broken now, since Alastair is dead,” he hurried to add. “You don’t have to worry about going to hell.”

They continued to talk well into the night, and even into the early morning, ordering Chinese when they got hungry. Sam, of course, had endless questions about demons and magic, and Charlie excitedly asked about the possible existence of dragons, fairies, hobgoblins, etc. Castiel answered their questions to the best of his ability, but he looked way out of his depth.

“I’m not an advanced magician yet,” he pleaded, after Sam started to ask about magical theories that went way over Dean’s head, and apparently over Castiel’s as well. Dean took pity on him and interrupted, asking for Castiel’s help with something in the kitchen.

“What do you require me to do?” he asked, missing the point entirely.

“I don’t actually need your help, Cas. I actually wanted to talk with you.”

“About what?”

“Well, first of all, I wanted to apologize for how I’ve been treating you recently.”

“It’s okay, Dean, I know you weren’t in your right mind. Consider everything forgotten.” But he looked slightly troubled.

“That’s another thing. Even if the past two weeks have been hell, not all of it was bad, if you catch my drift.” Dean hoped he wouldn’t have to spell it out for him, but if the confused frown on Castiel’s face was anything to go by, Dean shouldn’t hold his breath.

“I don’t think I understand, Dean.” Dean resisted the urge to sigh.

“I like you, Cas,” he said plainly. “In a more than neighborly way.” Castiel blushed bright scarlet; it shouldn’t have been as cute as it was.

“Oh.” Suddenly Dean felt less confident than he had two minutes ago.

“If you don’t feel the same way, that’s fine. I just thought you should know how I felt,” he said carefully, trying to ignore the burning, crushed feeling in his heart. ‘ _Shut up,’_ he thought savagely. ‘ _We knew it was a long shot anyway.’_

“No! That’s not it at all,” Castiel hurriedly said, breaking into a huge smile. “I thought it was just me, and I was taken aback, that’s all.”

“Really?” He felt his eyes widen. It was too good to be true. Suddenly he became aware that he was standing in a too-small kitchen, close enough to Castiel that he could count his eyelashes. Dean unconsciously leaned forward, and Castiel did the same, and then they were kissing, hot and fast like their lives depended on it.

Dean put one hand on the back of Castiel’s head, pulling him closer. Castiel went willingly, warm and pliant. He wrapped his arms around Dean until their bodies were pressed flush, wrapped up in each other.

That was how Charlie found them when she walked into the kitchen. She screamed, and they broke apart in surprise. “Oh my God, Winchester, you TOTALLY owe me!” she squealed. “I KNEW you two had something going on!”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that. Luckily, Charlie took care of it. “Anyway, sorry for interrupting, but Dean, you and I need to talk.” She didn’t give him a chance to reply, dragging him out of the room.

“First of all: why didn’t you tell me you had a brother?” she demanded angrily. “Secondly: you. Castiel. _Spill.”_

“That’s a long story,” he said wryly.

“And I have all the time in the world,” Charlie countered, sitting back in her chair. So Dean began from the beginning, while Bobby fell asleep, and Castiel began to teach Sam the most basic of nature spells, the ones the children of his family learned, he said. Sam was picking it up faster than anyone would have thought, and Dean felt a flutter of hope for what the future might bring.

~*~

It was a month later, and the phone was ringing as Dean and Castiel made breakfast together in the apartment they now shared. Dean answered it. “Hello?”

“Dean! It’s me, and I was just calling because it’s probably going to be a while until I can get to a phone after today.”

“How’s it going?”

“Great. I met someone, actually, her name is Jess. We’re heading in the same general direction, so I figured, why not travel together?”

“That’s great, Sammy. Send me a postcard when you get to Mexico,” Dean joked. Sam was heading there to meet with a famed magician, but rumor had it that he was the real deal. Sam hoped to learn from him.

“Okay. Bye, Dean.” He hung up.

“How’s Sam doing?” Castiel asked.

“Good. He’s on his way to Mexico right now, actually. I’m glad he finally has the chance to see the world.” Although it had been hard to say goodbye to Sam, Dean knew it was best for him to get out there. After all, he wasn’t going it be the one to deny Sam the freedom he’d wanted for so long.

“I’m glad I was able to help him change his looks,” Castiel said. “He really is bright. He didn’t deserve to spend his life hiding.”

“No, he didn’t,” Dean said softly, returning to his breakfast, feeling content for the first time in weeks. Sam awake and out in the world, Azazel and Alastair dead, him and Castiel together… Everything had turned out better than he could’ve imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a moment to leave kudos or a comment, if you liked it!


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